


Identity Theft

by sonderbean



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bad Flirting, Blood and Gore, Boys Being Boys, Coran is famous, Criminal Keith, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Cussing, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hawaiian Hunk (Voltron), Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Korean Keith (Voltron), Love/Hate, M/M, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, bodyswap!au, lance in denial, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonderbean/pseuds/sonderbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're in the body of a criminal. (Bonus if they were in the middle of committing a crime when you swapped bodies.)</p><p>In which Lance switches bodies with one of the most dangerous and wanted outlaws in South Korea: Keith Gyeong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! Lots of blood and gore.  
> And constructive criticism is welcome. c: Kudos and comments are appreciated and help a ton!

The first detail he takes notice of is that it's cold. Bust ass cold.

Then it's the heavy weight in his palm, foreign and metallic. He can't make out what exactly it is that he has in his clutches due to the dim lighting, or lack thereof, but it's the scent that catches his attention before he can place a word for the item. It's foul and highly unpleasant to his nostrils, and it's overwhelming. He presses the small of his wrist of his free hand against his nose to block out the smell, but to no avail. It does little to expel the horrid stench overriding his system. (Since when was he this skinny, he wonders.)

Next is the location; Lance figures it to be some sort of a rundown building. The concrete pavement dons cracks that vaguely remind him of woven spider webs, and the red brick walls are in no better condition. Dust particles drift in the air, and the vacant space before him is flooded in silvery moonlight.

Suddenly, it all clicks together. He recognizes the object in his hand to be a handgun; an _authentic_ one. The very thing populace utilize to harm/end someone's life. Yeah, that thing. Said gun clatters to the ground and skids a safe distance away from him. But he pays no heed to it, for the scene set before him has him frozen to the spot. 

There's a built man bound to a foldable chair a few footsteps away, and his mouth is silenced by a makeshift gag. His head is hung in defeat, chin drawn to his chest, and his shoulders are hunched forward. His expression is obscured by the ebony tendrils of hair falling into his eyes, but Lance can easily tell without seeing his face that the mysterious bloke was in pain.

His dehydrated throat is parched, and he wrestles his voice from his lungs, trying to call out, _anything,_  but all that escapes from him is a pathetic squeak. The man dazedly lifts up his head at the noise, as if in a stupor, as if the simple action requires effort, and blinks. His eyes, Lance realizes with a bone-chilling shudder, are devoid of any emotion, and when their gazes meet, something passionate lights ablaze in the man's eyes.

It's hatred. Pure, pure loathe. 

"What're you waiting for?" The man's voice is raspy, hoarse. He jerks his head in the general direction of the abandoned gun Lance dropped earlier, wincing slightly at the motion. But despite the betrayal of weakness, he never breaks eye contact. "Finish what you started. Or are you savoring my suffering?" 

Lance is feeling the complete opposite of satisfaction. In fact, he's the one quivering in his boots with blood-curdling fear, instead of the other way around. The prisoner is staring, no, _glaring_ at him, and he realizes that he must be waiting for a response, so he offers intelligently, "I-what?" (Holy fuck. He doesn't remember his voice being this deep.)

A crease wrinkles the man's forehead. "I don't understand," He murmurs quietly around the bandana, almost inaudible. Lance has to strain his ears to hear him. "One moment you want to kill me, and the next-ah," He cuts himself short to curl his lip back in visible disgust. "You're toying with me. You're very good at acting, did you know that? It's a shame you waste your potential on-"

At this point, Lance tunes him out. Was that a compliment? It sounded like both an insult and a praise. And, hold a darn diddly moment-he wanted to murder someone? And a stranger at that? Lance is totally and utterly lost. He decides to voice this out loud. "Uh. You lost me." 

The corner of the man's mouth drags downwards into a frown. He shifts in the chair, the furniture groaning in protest, and doesn't say anything for a long while. But before the silence becomes too unbearable, he speaks again, this time in a considerably lighter tone. "I see. Even _he_ has a designated partner." Lance opens his mouth to ask what he means, but the man has his open quicker. "Would you please be so kind as to untie me? We can talk in a more...better environment." 

Lance hesitates-he's caught off guard by how fast the man's behavior can change. But he obliges anyway, crossing the spacious room in a matter of seconds and kneeling beside the man to unlace his hands. 

Lance has never seen anything as brutal as this. At a closer proximity and better inspection, he can see garish, plum and swollen olive hues that mar the man's sickly pale skin. His lips are chapped and vastly lack color, and his elbow is scraped raw. Elbow, because the man owned only one arm. Only one arm, because it's neighbor is shriveled and rotting on the floor beside the man's feet.

There is so much _blood_. An absurd amount of the bodily fluid is splattered across the asphalt and mats the man's jeans. Thick, viscious, blood. Lance feels his body convulse, feels bile rising in his throat. He gags at the coppery, sharp tang of blood; it's the scent from before, more nauseating now that he is kneeling in a literal pool of it. 

The world tilts on its axis; the ground sways under his knees; and he vomits. The man could only watch sympathetically as he regurgitates, painting the floor with peach and a sickly color of green. He spews whatever his stomach contains until he can't, and he weakly apologizes to the man as soon as he finishes, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Or what should've been the back of his hand. He instead smears residue barf on fingerless gloves. Gross.

"Are you okay?" The genuine concern in the man's voice brings him out of his shaken state. Which is funny, considering the fact the man who is worrying over him just recently had his arm chopped off, but his first priority is Lance. 

Lance can only afford to nod; he reaches out with badly trembling hands to loosen the tight knot. 

The man breathes out a sigh of relief and tests out his remaining hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist. He then outstretches the hand, and Lance takes it, allowing the man-he claims to be Shiro-pull him to his feet. And it's in that moment that it hits him. Shiro. _Shiro._

His mouth gapes open and his eyes widen in shock. " _Takashi Shirogane_. You're  _alive._ " 

Nasa's missing astronaut, reported dead, is standing right in front of him. 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! :) THE COMMENTS HAD ME CACKLING I'M-  
> FYI, updates are going to be as slow as the Klance in this universe's relationship. School's a drag. Bear with me!

The steaming mug cupped in the groove of his callused hand is pleasantly warm.

It's a broad contrast in comparison to the crisp iciness of the frigid air, biting cold and rapidly approaching hypothermic. His fingertips and his stub of an arm are throbbing with a numb sensation, but it has little relation to the freezing temperature and more to the lingering after effects of the anesthetic injected into his bloodstream.

He and Keith's counterpart (the boy had nervously introduced himself as Lance before they'd left the ruined site) had somehow managed to move to a far more safer location without gathering too much unwanted attention (save for the curious glances shot in their direction). Lance had insisted he use his (well, technically Keith's) beloved cropped jacket to soak up the majority of the blood to avoid spillage, but Shiro had politely declined, instead opting for the maroon bandana secured around the lower half portion of his face as a temporary sponge.

They'd hailed a taxicab. Shiro was only partially listening to what Lance was rambling nonstop about, (something that sounded vaguely like "dude you're like my hero" and "you're a fucking legend") more preoccupied with the thought of who was able to house them on the whim than with what Lance had to drone on and on about.

The first person who came to mind was Matt Holt, but he quickly banished away the thought before a solid idea could form. Next was Coran, but the only problem was that he was currently on a world tour for the time being. Shiro highly doubted the prestigious and widely known man would leave his door unlocked. Finally, he decided to use his last resort. Allura-

"-iro?" His inner musings were interrupted by a distant voice, sounding both precarious and wonderstruck. He disembarked the jumbled train of his thoughts to board the station of reality. And then, like the lenses of a camera, everything snapped into focus, and he was pulled back into the present. "Hello, earth to Shiro? Anyone in there?"

Kei-Lance, was waving a gloved hand uncomfortably close in his field of vision, a fuzzy blur of pale and ebony color. Shiro started with a jolt, lost, before he remembered where he was. "I, er."

He feigned a cough into his fist to sharply clear his throat, and when he looked up again, he mustered a tired smile. "You'll have to forgive me, Lance. I'm a little out of it right now."

"Yeah, I can tell." The Cuban descendant allowed his hand to go limp and drop into the fork his thighs formed, eyes absently following the motion. Shiro would've labeled it as sheepish, if it weren't for the stern line the younger's mouth was set in. "You don't look so good."

Shiro's gaze flickered towards the frost-enfused glass of the window to peer curiously at his reflection. Almost instantaneously, Lance practically threw his entire body into the Japanese man's line of sight, eyes wild.  

"I-I mean, obviously, 'cause of the whole-" He gestured to the blood-flecked neckerchief in an awkward sweep of his arm, "-arm thing. But don't get me wrong, you're still rocking that look, arm or not, but-"

"You can stop talking now, Lance." 

"Okay." A relieved expression was plastered to his face as Shiro shifted away from the fogged up window and him, the leather-bound seat whining in protest under his weight. Silence proceeded to hang between them, thick and heavy like a wooly blanket had been thrown overhead, the only exception the rumbling engine of the car. It wasn't necessarily discomforting, but it wasn't tranquil, either. The moment ended when Lance decided to pipe up. "So, real talk. What in the name of quiznack happened to you?"

Shiro visibly tensed up; he had been dreading the question, despite knowing it would've been brought to the equation eventually, and a foolish part of him had hoped Lance wouldn't have prompted said question. He considered lying, but what good would that do? Besides, it was about time someone knew what he'd been through in the past year. 

He did leave out, however, small tid bits of unimportant details here and there, minor things that needn't be confronted. All through out his recollection of events, Lance had remained uncharacteristically quiet, nodding along at some parts and contorting his face at others. When he'd finished, he'd felt more at peace somehow, like an invisible weight had been lifted off his chest. 

Meanwhile, Lance had been staring at him like he'd grown an extra pair of heads. "Woah. You've been through _hell_ and _back_."

"Yeah." 

"Okay, so just to clarify in case I forget anything." The boy straightened up his slumped posture, ticking off things on each of his fingers. "You were out on an errand and got knocked into oblivion, adult-napped, tied to a chair, and tortured for information you didn't have for, how long was it again? A whole _goddamn_ year? And then I magically poofed into your adult-napper's stead and found you like that." 

Shiro gave a curt nod of his head. "And the rest is history." 

"Jesus. That's rough, dude."

"Yeah." 

It was then they'd arrived unannounced. The horrified look on the dark-skinned woman's facial features had been a loud indicator that she hadn't been expecting company that very afternoon, especially by her bleeding ex-colleague having his weight supported by a world famous criminal. She'd demanded to know what was going on, but Lance had shot up an impeccable hand, "Questions later. He's hurt badly," and maneuvered past her without waiting for an invitation inside to dump Shiro's limp body onto the velvety couch. Using a rundimentary emergency first aid kit, Allura had tended to his wounds with her mouth pursed into a thin line, but other than that, she didn't comment, choosing to focus her energy on keeping Shiro alive, and as soon as it was clear he was going to witness yet another day, she'd retreated into the kitchen to brew tea for all the current residents.

Now here they were, with Shiro propped upright by a plush cushion, Lance draped all over the armrest, humming a tuneless song, and Allura keeping post nearby in an old antique chair.

Curling his fingers around the handle, he lifted up the cup with an unsteady hand, (he was right-handed, not left) and took a time-consuming, ginger sip from the simmering teacup, fluttering his eyelids closed to silently cherish the swirls of heat wafting onto his cheeks. After what felt like an entire lifetime to him, he hefted out a sigh of content and set down the cup onto its ceramic saucer with a soft clink. “Thank you for your hospitality, Allura. I'm sorry we came on such a short notice. I'm not sure what we would've done without your help. I hope we're not burdening you with-"

"It's fine, really," Allura interrupted briskly with a half-hearted smile. It didn't quite reach the corners of her eyes. "You don't have to be so modest, Shiro." She paused briefly to cut her eyes in the direction of Lance, and when she addressed him, the disdain was evident in her voice. "I hope it's not asking too much of you, but...I'm curious to know why of all people you choose to acquaint yourself with, it's one of _them_. But, more specifically, _him_."

Shiro winced at the high toxicity levels laden in her acidic tone. He knew she'd propose inquiries in regards to the situation and Lance, who was still in control of Keith's body at the moment, himself, but what he didn't know was her attitude towards the whole ordeal. If he were being honest, he hadn't expected for her to be _this_ resentful. She had her own personal reasons for her hatred, which was completely understandable, but-

"Lady," Lance drawled in a honey silk voice, reminding Shiro that of a cat's body-racking purr. The Latino's eyelids were lowered ever so slightly, and he was what Hunk would call the perfect embodiment of seduction. "You're loin-stirring and all, but c'mon, really? At least call me by my name."

"And that would be?" Allura gave him the once over with an unimpressed look, hands clasped to either sides of her hips. Lance was undeterred. 

"The name's Lance." He ran his gaze up and down her hourglass figure, undressing her with his eyes, before throwing her a subtle wink. "But you can call me tonight." 

Shiro very nearly choked on his next sip of charmoile tea, and was forced to harshly swallow the burning liquid down to avoid drowning. 

"I don't think you know this, but you look a lot like my next girlfriend."

This time, he wasn't able to stop himself. The boiling, yellow substance had surged up the wrong pipe, and he'd inelegantly spat out the tea in a wide spray. "Lance!"

Allura wrinkled her perky nose in repulsion, ignoring the sputtering Shiro in favor of retaliating. "The universe must've pitied you so much to handpick a soulmate for you." 

It was Lance's turn to spit out his beverage. He looked taken aback, as if she'd suggested the most ridiculous thing in the entire planet, or insulted the entirety of his family. "Woah woah woah. Hold up. Who said anything about a soulmate?"

"Keith Gyeong is your-"

"Okay, cool, nice, whatever. But you got this all wrong." Lance groped at his chest in exaggerated movements to emphasize his point. "I'm straight. As in, I like _boobs_. Heterosexual. Not, y'know."

"Apparently not fully straight." Shiro had recovered from his near death experience, albeit the tears pricking his eyes, to share his insight. "The universe is never wrong."

Lance opened and closed his mouth like a flapping fish gasping for water, before exclaiming, "But this has got to be a mistake! I'm cool with homosexuality, but like, not when _I'm_ involved. You feel? You can still like dick, I can still like boobs, and we can continue with our lives-" He abruptly paused, as if having an epiphany, before suddenly letting out an angonized wail, cradling his head between his hands in defeat. "Oh my god. Oh my _god_. This is probably the universe's way of saying, 'Hey, fuck you man.' Oh my _god_." 

"Lance-"

"Oh my quiznack and holy _god_ -" 

"Lance!" Shiro's voice rose to a deafening boom. Lance had snapped his head up so quickly that Shiro was afraid he'd get whiplash. When he spoke again, his tone was patronizing, soother. Like he was speaking to a petulant child, instead of a hormonal teenager having a mental breakdown due to his questionable sexuality. "I want you to calm down, count to ten, and breathe, okay? Can you do that for me?" 

Lance's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, but he did as told. Finally, with only a bit of coaxing from Shiro, his large gulps of air were reduced to normal intakes.

"Sorry for freaking out on you. I just-" His slender shoulders drooped slightly. "I just always thought my one true love would be a girl, y'know? I never thought it would be a _guy_ , let alone a sane psychopath-" He never got to finish. "Oh crud. This isn't good." 

Without a warning, Lance scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own limbs in his haste. He let out a stream of obscenities, training his gaze forwards and caressing his left earlobe. Shiro was about to ask if something had stung/bitten the boy's appendage when he detected a distinct _beep._ "Lance? Did something happen?" 

The emotion on Lance's face was unreadable, and it didn't lessen his confusion when he uttered one word. "Hunk."

"What is a hunk?" Allura contributed helpfully, straightening up to her full height. 

"Not what. Hunk's a person." Lance's voice was pinched, hurried. "The last time I was in my own body, I was hanging out with my best friend."

"And now that you're here, that means-" 

"Yeah. Keith's there. He's with _Hunk_." 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the moment you've been waiting for. I present to you: Keith Gyeong! It's hella brief, unfortunately.

Her whirring monitor is the only primary source of light in the gloom of her workplace. The fluorescent radiation basks her concentrated features in a sheen of washed out white and momentarily catches the lenses of the rounded spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose in a glare. It's reminiscent of a signature move anime characters do whilst readjusting their glasses, but Japanese animation is the last thing dwelling on her mind; cursing Keith in every language known to mankind comes first.

Her amber optics fervently scan the cryptic data filling the central computer's screen admist the alignment of numerous other screens, deft fingers flying across the clunky keyboard with an urgency and practiced precision.

 _Clack_ , _clack_ , _clack_. 

"Pick up, pick up, pick _up_ ," She chants with impatience to the transmitter. Her perseverance wanes with every passing second. 

 _Clack_ , _clack_ , _clack_. Then it ceases altogether. 

Like a freeze frame in a film, Katie's hands hover contemplatively over the keyboard. She mulls over her few, limited options: continue to waste precious time, await for Keith to return the missed calls, arrange a meeting in person, or scream into the abyss. 

The scene resumes, and in the end, she does none of the above. They're all inadmissible and unwise.  _Argh_. 

She's been trying to contact him all morning. Huge, _huge_  emphasis on trying. The first few failed attempts she'd pardoned (her digital clock informed her it was six am). But after the fifth call, and still no reply, it was getting ridiculous. Keith didn't have an immediate family or a lover to attend to; why was his presence requested all of a sudden? 

She's as worn out as her overheated PC, as slow as the data still rendering with the pace equivalent to that of a sloth. Her skin is icky and sticky and she _reeks_. Her auburn hair is plastered to the exposed nape of her neck, and perspiration has collected and slicked her entire backside. _Ew_. 

If she could, she'd trade anything in the world just to submerge her overworked body in a tub of ice cold water, but work is first and foremost, and her job ensures that she can't finish the operation without her compeer. Who, mind you,  _won't_ _pick up the damn signal_.

"You better not be dead." A particularly hard click on her computer mouse. The pixelated logo of the loading symbol. And then the translucent bulb blinking neon green. Her signal had transferred through.

"Yes!" With reinvigorated strength, Katie reclines in her Ikea swivel chair, reveling in her success, and gropes blindly behind her to gather her mop of hair into a neat ponytail. She releases the elastic band with a resounding _snap_ andenthusiasticallygrins at Keith's hologram; only to discover that visuals were turned off. 

Katie's smile dies.

"I'm starting to believe you don't take your work seriously." The words are said robotically, monotone. Her 'sit up and pay attention' voice. "In my personal experience, those who strictly dedicate their short existence to their professions generally show a reoccurring trend to answer after the first or second ring. And if two associates are unanimous in their agreement to having facecam on, then-"

Keith's voice is barely audible over the crackling static that floods her entire ear. "Hunk...a person...last...out-"

"Huh?" She fumbles with her mint green headset, tweaking the settings to her betterment. "Uh, I don't comprehend. You're being unclear."

"There...with Hunk..."

"Where _are_ you?" Discombobulation betrays her business-like demeanor. "Your reception is really unstable. Did you move locations? " 

She's not surprised when she's answered by more static. Oh, for the love of-

She's teetering on the precipice of insanity (the lack of response was driving her crazy) when the static clears. Keith's voice rings as clear as crystalline crystal and as broad as day. It's a possibility that it could be due to the fact he was screaming.

"Dude! Watch out for that-"

There's the ear-splitting screeching of tires, and a distant shout of surprise. She's unable to tell if it came from Keith or that 'dude;' and she couldn't care any less, because she's too busy shrieking at him to assess the situation. "Do you have _any_ idea how long it took to get you to pick up? Seriously, is it _that_ hard to press a button? Oh, and don't even bother making up an excuse. It'll be a load of bull. And, also, while you were frolicking doing who knows what, I've been here sweating _bullets_  and-"

"Who are you?"

She stops her tangent to stare dumbfoundedly down at her monitor. Confused Keith was almost as rare as a Confused Pidge. Keyword: almost. She knew him as an experienced albeit reckless fighter who exuded confidence and was so sure of himself, who only spoke to her in regards to their mission and never asked about her past or anything personal, who kept their relationship strictly colleague-to-colleague. So, to put it simply, this version of Keith was abnormal to her. 

She uses sarcasm to get a bearing of herself. "Don't tell me you've suffered a concussion and, in result, lost all your memories. Those are extremely vital. To our mission, anyway."

"..." Nothing. She's either lost connection, or he has nothing to add. It's highly likely it's the latter.

"Hi, I'm Pidge Gunderson, partner of two years, underground hacker, capable of kicking your ass in both Mario Kart and real life. Ring a bell?"

She recognized the distinct buzzing of a doorbell on the receiving end. "Very funny, Gyeong."

"Hey, kiddo." He sounds a little out of breath, like he'd run an entire marathon. Oh, that's probably what he was doing this morning. "Do you think you could send someone's coordinates to me? Hunk Garrett's?"

The sudden diversion in the conversation catches her off guard, but she quickly recovers to save face. "Easy. But do you mind if I ask why?" She scrolled through the feed she'd added on a new tab, and as predicted, emerged empty. "He's not on the hit list."

"Hit list?" Befuddled Keith strikes again! 

"In other words, the series of individuals singled out for wiping their existence by our boss," She clarifies.

"Oh. That kind of hit list." A second voice joins in in the background, Mr.Dude, but it's hushed and far more faint than Keith's. Then: "Sorry to break it to you, Pidge, but I gotta go MIA."

"What? Oh, no you don't. You are _not_ going to hang up on me, you hear? Not after all that effort it took me to-"

"I promise on my mother's life that I'll call you back. But for now-smell you later."

"I'm warning you, Gyeong. If you hang up, I'll, I'll-"

The line went dead.

* * *

The Garrett Residence was a quaint little suburban house. Ashy smoke curled above the red brick chimney and drifted upwards to mingle with the white, cotton clouds against the backdrop of the cobalt blue of the sky.

It was straight out of a scene from a movie. 

Lance had stooped below the overhanging tiled roof to take a whiff of the well-tended-to bush ripe with flourishing roses, but Shiro had dragged him by his elbow to the front doorstep. 

"Don't forget our purpose," He'd chastised, to which Lance had drastically rolled his eyes. "And the plan. No matter what you do, you have to-"

"Yeah, yeah. Stick to the plan. Done deal." He waved a hand dismissively, as if to ward off Shiro's worries. "Stop your worrying. I've got this in the _bag_."

Shiro didn't look too convinced, but he took his word for it nonetheless and proceeded to crouch beneath the cover the windowsill provided, waiting with baited breath for the plan to commence.

And commence it did. 

"Why hello there, Mrs.Garrett." Lance tipped his head slightly to the side, a coy smile surfacing on his lips. Eased between his pearly whites was a wilted rose. Since when...? "Still looking as lovely as always. Say, did you get a new haircut?"

The pudgy woman instinctively reached up to touch her newly trimmed hair. "Why, yes, I did indeed." Her gaze never strayed, for one of two reasons: she either recognized the rose stolen straight from her garden, or because he looked exactly like a notorious murderer. "Thank you for noticing, um...?" 

"La-Keith. I'm a close friend of Lance and Hunk. Great guys. Especially Lance. Hot stuff, am I right?" The dried leaves rustled too vigorously to be from a passing breeze, and it was too convenient for a twig to snap. 

"I...I suppose..." She peered over at her flower bed to better inspect the commotion, but she was rewarded with a faceful of Lance.

"That reminds me!" Lance reached into the confinements of his pocket to fish out a crumpled up scrap of paper torn directly from a notebook, holding out the message for her to take. "Mr.Garrett told me to give you this."  

She took it cautiously from him, the fawn-haired female smoothing out the crinkles to examine the poor penmanship. 

"It's for safety precautions," Lance explained as he edged around the astounded Mrs.Garrett. "You know. In case an emergency happens. Better to be safe than sorry!"

"Yes, but-"

"There's no time! We need safety kits, emergency kits, kit kats, all the kits, stat." He shoved her jingling car keys and beige trench coat into her hands, helping guid the protesting woman towards the garage. "Well, have fun. And remember: Lance and Hunk's lives are at stake!" 

The jeep sputters to life, kicking up gravel in its wake and emitting a foul gas. He doesn't move from his position at the artificial lawn, waving animatedly until the vehicle disappears around a bend in the road.

Phase one is a success. 

Lance forms a thumbs up, and Shiro returns the gesture from within the shrubbery. 

Moving onto phase two.

Lance flattens against the wall farthest from the closed doors, shuffling along the compact corridor with shifty eyes. He steels himself for the worst case scenarios; an ambush from behind, a kitchen knife to his throat, a sneak attack from above, a sharp uppercut to his abdomen. 

Nope. Still breathing. 

He reaches the end of the hallway with the reassurance of his survival and his mind in a frenzy. He attempts to swallow back the knot of anxiety as he ghosts his hand over the brass doorknob, willing his frayed nerves to calm down. 

This is it. He was going to interact with his soulmate for the first time. He was going to meet Keith Gyeong, face-to-face.

Keith Gyeong, who he'd only seen on the news anchor. 

Keith Gyeong, who didn't have much effect on his life until that fateful day he'd encountered Shiro. Which, a small voice in the back of his head points out, was just yesterday. The course of his life changed in the span of a couple hours.

Keith Gyeong, who was a _guy_. 

He doesn't know whether he should be ecstatic (he loved adventure) or cynical. 

It'll be easy, Shiro had said. If you don't panic, then you'll be fine. Listen to your heart (he'd splayed his fingers over the area of Lance's beating organ), not your mind. And breathe.

Shiro hadn't told him what to do if both his mind and his heart were flashing bright, neon warning signs that read: _abort, abort!_

Something every color of the spectrum flutters to the ground and lands near his feet. He barely managed to bite back the terrified scream that nearly rips from his vocal chords. 

He bends over at the waist to retrieve it, and it's only when his fingers run along the laminated edge that he recognizes the flimsy object. 

It's a poster Lance had gifted Hunk back in sixth grade. He'd been rifling through the pages of the book fair catalogue when he'd stumbled upon the banner. 

"KEEP OUT. GAMER AT WORK. KILLING ENEMIES. BEATING BOSSES. STEALING CARS. EXPLICIT LANGUAGE. BLOWING STUFF UP. LEAVE FOOD AND DRINK AT DOOR THEN GO AWAY. ENTER AT OWN RISK." 

At the time, he'd thought it perfectly matched Hunk's description and portrayed his character. Even now, when he thought about it, it still did.

It suddenly dawned on him that his buddy never changed; he merely grew up. 

This entail causes him to stand with pride, allows him to straighten his spine. His shoulders are squared back, and his chin is hefted up to stare down his nose. "Enter at own risk?" He turns the handle with a tilt of his wrist. "Will do." 

The door cracks open, and pinpricks of sunlight pool into the hallway.

Nothing could prepare Lance for the scene unfurling before him.

"Yo."


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekly updates every Sunday! 
> 
> I've proofread and edited this chapter more than once and I'm still not satisfied? It doesn't sound eloquent and it doesn't flow smoothly;;

The embroidered rug beneath his crisscrossed legs is sandpaper rough against the bare of his tan skin.

His plump hand is cupping the underside of his clean-shaven chin, stroking at a non-existent goatee. His adversary's next course of action can range from a variety of anything. The probability and ratio is, hehe, _probably_ , (he mentally high fives himself for the totally intended pun) one to-

Lance produces a low rumble, unusually baritone for such a shrill voice. Akin to a canine's guttural snarl, it reverberates in the back of his throat and resonates in the stuffy, humid air. (Hunk's guardians are _obsessed_ with cranking up the heat. As if it wasn't sweltering enough in here.) The Cuban jabs at a segment in the far corner of the border with a scrawny finger, decision arbitrary and executed without weighing the pros and cons. "G3."

"Sorry, Lance." The mockingly pitiful words are automatic. A rather cheeky grin stretches extensively from one ear to the other, splitting Hunk's face into two sectors. In addition, dimples have indented the baby fat in his chubby cheeks, and this small detail somehow adds to his glamour. "Miss."

His dimpled smile falters when he catches sight of Lance's hand flexing against the prominent curve of his thick, jean-clad thigh, perfectly manicured nails digging into the fabric. That surely will leave a mark; if the self-inflicted wound is left unattended to, five angry, deep nicks will manifest on the rich brown skin. Hunk bites back the recommendation of cool ointment.

The first red flag.

If his memory serves him correctly, Lance has a low tolerance for pain. He'd discovered this notion during their days at the Garrison Middle School/Intermediate School, when they were approximately at the ripe age of eleven. It was a customary tradition to pinch those who weren't wearing green on Saint Patrick's Day; the perfect excuse to mercilessly twist his best friend's fleshy bicep. Of course, Karma was a bitch, and Lance had yapped in his ear about the apparent "abuse" for a whole duration of two hours.

 _So_ worth it.

The second red flag. (Technically first, but sequential order wasn't crucial to Hunk atm.) 

Ever since brunch, Lance had been acting peculiar. (By that, he means stranger than usual.) He was boisterous and rambunctious one minute, practically bouncing off the walls from exuberance, and the next, he was taciturn and aloof, face slack with dullness. It was almost as if another being had taken possession over his body, because, c'mon, Lance being serious for once? Haha, good one.

Anywho, he'll update his mental logs if he finds any additional red flags.

The game ends on a spectacular note; for Hunk, that is. 

" _Aw yeah_!" He triumphantly fist pumps the air, sepia eyes sparkling. When it came to games, let it be virtual/digital or crafted out of a cardboard, he was the unbeaten victor. (Competitive, athletic games were more Lance's forte. You'd be lying if you didn't think Lance had killer thighs and calves built with rippling muscles. He was _made_  essentially for soccer and swimming.) 

It's blatantly obvious the game ends on a bad note. For his best bud, that is. 

" _Congrats_." The pure bitterness in Lance's voice is enough to make Hunk pause in the middle of his one-person-tango to shoot him a flabbergasted look. If he were to describe the tone in flavor, it would be: black, unsweetened coffee, without the assistance of steamed milk or anything to enhance the otherwise bland taste. 

Hunk attempts to plop a handful of sugar cubes into the noxious mixture. "Hey, there's always next time. And, besides, this game is based on, like, luck, so it's hardly skill. You just have to be really, _really_ good at guessing." 

"Good thing you're an expert on guessing." It's filled to the brim, threatening to spill and peeking over the lip of the hypothetical cup. Lance sets his jaw begrudgingly and glares heatedly down at his board pieces strewn haphazardly across the polished, wood-paneled floor. It's like if he stares hard enough, the ship models will melt under the intensity of his azure blue eyes.

He better act quickly before it overflows. 

"Lance, Battleship is supposed to be a fun, little activity meant for passing time, not a competition."

Lance angles his head in a way that allows him to peer out of the corner of his peripheral vision. "I never lose."

Hunk resists the tempting urge to pinch the bridge of his stout nose. "Fine. Fine, okay. Whatever floats your boat." He rises to his full height and, tucking the board game under the crook of his arm, ambles the short distance to his self-constructed shelf. He's never seen Lance _this_  vexed before in the entire thirteen years he's known him. 

As a prepubescent child, Lance had gotten into an outrageous quantity of brawls. Albeit not emerging victorious, he, without fail, finished every fist fight with a busted face and a broad, Lance-esc smirk. 

"Did it for you, pal," He'd said one fine afternoon as Hunk patched up his wounds, smiles and all, in spite of the tear in the corner of his mouth. "Just so you know: if I had to pick between having a bruised reputation and letting some asswipe insult you, I'd choose the obvious one." 

"Letting an asswipe call me names?" Hunk had prompted, after securely fastening the dressing around Lance's temple. He'd stepped back to admire his handiwork, and, once he'd deducted all the injuries were well tended to, helped the boy back onto his feet with a hand pressed against the small of his back and the other on the joint of his elbow for stabilizing. 

At that, a good-natured laugh spilled from Lance's lips. "Nah, dude. Losing my title as the school's number one athlete." They'd boarded Mr.Garrett's battered truck, Lance jerking his chin up in a casual greeting. When they'd pulled out of school grounds and onto the motor road, he continued. "Like, I feel sorry for them, 'cause they don't know what they're missing out on. You're so freaking kind and genuine and cool and smart and-"

"Aww, Lance, that's so cheesy." Hunk had playfully swatted at the arm Lance was favoring, forgetting in the moment he was still hurt. Oops. He'd elicited an "ow!" and a melodramatic "watch the arm, the arm!" And then they burst into a bout of uncontrollable laughter, Hunk clapping his hands like an overexcited seal and Lance slapping his kneecap. When the guffaws subsided, the shorter of the pair tipped his head back into his upraised arms and stared into space.

"So, yeah." His optics were a reflection of the sky; muggy and cloudy, obscuring the radiant vividness beneath. "You know, Shay's really lucky to be with someone like you."

Here we go again, he internally groaned. Whenever Shay was mentioned in their conversations, it usually resulted in Lance hysterically sobbing into his arms about his stagnant single status. He prayed to every religion the boy had the decency to keep himself together in front of his dad. 

Lance bolted upright in his seat, panic replacing the dazed look in his eyes. "No homo, bro." 

Hunk exhaled a bemused snort. "Quit sounding so lonely and sentimental. You're gonna meet your soulmate someday, okay?" He grasped Lance's shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. "And when you do, you're gonna be so in love and, ew, puke, corny, that you won't even remember you hate cliches. And then you're gonna tell me all about her and then we can talk about how amazing our girlfriends are over IHop pancakes." 

Lance's voice had dwindled into a harsh whisper. "Dude."

"Bro."

"Double date?" He's brimming with hope.

"Double date."

"No take backs." The posterior portion of Lance's head hits the headrest in content. "I won't have to be the third wheel who tags along while his best friend passionately makes out with his girlfriend anymore."

"That's oddly specific. Are you okay?"

"Shut up and let me have this moment." 

* * *

"Lighten up a little, Lance." With delayed timing, Hunk flicks on the light switch and whirls around to glimpse Lance's reaction. The Cuban doesn't bat an eyelash. That makes it...red flag number four? He'd lost count during the flashback. "It's just a game." 

"Yeah, a game that solely depends on the honesty of your opponent." Lance's expression remains in a mediocre state. It deeply unnerves Hunk. "How am I supposed to know you're not lying?" 

"Hold that thought. First, I need you to scooch your butt." Lance obliges, shifting to provide more room on the threadbare carpet. Ding ding. Red flag again. The Lance he knew would never freely give up his spot without a friendly squabble.

It's clear all points indicate this isn't his best friend. This an imposter. A doppelgänger. Lance's soulmate...?

"It's all about trust, bud." The Hawaiian nestles against Lance's flank, whole weight dependent on the boy's. There's barely any reaction. Okay, how about...? He stretches his legs over the platform of Lance's lap. The scruffy, acorn-haired male doesn't resist nor move to pry the heavy limbs off. Hm. He peels a cadmium yellow sock off of one foot, bunches up the cotton material, and hurls the article of clothing in the anonymous person's direction. The mysterious bloke dodges the assault with ease; the balled up sock whizzes past their ear and thumps uselessly against the loaded laundry basket. Very, very interesting. "You _do_ trust me, right?" 

He never knew the answer, because Lance's attention is anchored elsewhere. Reluctantly, he tracks his gaze.

The door to his bedroom is, alarmingly, ajar. Were his parents expecting guests? Were Lance's picking him up early? Did his father return from work? Whatever the case, he hadn't been notified of their arrival.

The newcomer clears their throat to make their presence known. Hunk's racing heart spikes by a tenfold, thumping almost painfully against his ribcage. His hands grow clammy with sweat; he wipes them down on his khaki shorts. _Stay cool Hunky, stay cool_.

He's everything but cool.

It takes a while for him to realize their entrance is prolonged for a reason. Hunk quickly takes advantage of their hesitation. "Lance," He says breathlessly as he searches for the nearest escape route. One brief look tells him the boy is as cold and detached as ever. He'd put the Boomerang Nebula to shame. "We need to leave, like, _right now_."

The tremor in his voice doesn't launch Lance into a frenzy. In fact, he's the pinnacle of composure. How on earth can he be so blasé about this? Hunk seriously considers ditching Lance in favor of defenestrating himself.

It's not until Lance's one-syllabled, informal greeting that Hunk realizes he's too late. "Yo."

There's the silhouette of a person blotting out the natural light from the hallway.

Hunk's hands fly to his mouth when he identifies who it is.

Keith Gyeong is standing in the entrance to his cluttered bedroom.

* * *

Keith Gyeong's, also known as Lance's, eyes flit from Hunk to the original Keith and circles back to Hunk again. (He denies his gaze lingering on the Korean.) What the quiznacking quiznack was going on? 

There's a hollow, resounding pang in his chest. (For Keith or for Hunk, he doesn't know, and he can't afford to care. There're pressing matters at hand, he reminds himself; far more important than his personal feelings. Those can wait another time.)

"Hey, uh." Lance tests out his voice, silently praying it didn't sound as shaky as he felt. "Big guy, mind if I...borrow your friend?" 

Hunk looks like his spirit has just ascended and was crossing the threshold to the eternal heaven. "M-Me?" 

"It won't be long." 

"Oh, yeah." Hunk is violently bobbing his head in a nod. "Y-Yeah, sure." Turning to Keith, he claps a hand to his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. It doesn't take a genius to know the smile is forced. "You'll be fine; I know it. Go see what Mr.Baddie wants and make sure you come back in _one piece_." 

Keith merely gives a one-shouldered shrug. Lance wishes he could be nonchalant about the ordeal too. 

* * *

The atmosphere is fairly awkward. Not frightening, not nerve-wracking; _awkward_. The kind of awkward between a twitchy couple on a first date.

It doesn't help that Keith doesn't even spare him a single glance. Honestly, what was his deal? 

The male is currently listing his weight against the marble countertop. His arms are elegantly crossed over his chest; an action he manages to pull off as fluid, seamless, like he'd spent his life perfecting the move. In contrast, Lance can't seem to stay still. He's pulling anxiously at the collar of his shirt, _Keith's_ shirt, and he's shifting from one foot to the other.

Keith continues to ignore him. 

"So, um." _Quick, think of something. Anything will do_. "Nice weather we're having today." Really? Out of everything they could discuss, he chooses to talk about the climate? How would he fare in pillow talk? Not that that was ever going to happen anytime soon, with Keith of all people, but, just to be on the safe side- 

"Could be better." In other words: ' _I don't have time for idle chatter. But I do have time to let your best friend straddle me_ -' "Did you happen to talk to Gunderson?"

Lance goes blank at the sudden transition in subject. "Huh?" 

"Gunderson. Pidge Gunderson." As if those three words explained everything. 

Oh, wait. On second thought, they do. His brain helpfully conjures up a memory, recapping the last few hours. "What about her?" Him? Her? Them? 

"I have unfinished business with her." 

Lance subconsciously touches his earlobe. His first impression of Keith was everything but endearing: not only was he a relentless killer who torments generous men, but he also forces little girls to work for him. He _definitely_ wasn'tgoing to let Keith have his way any longer. "I'm not giving you anything." 

"What?" Keith finally levels his gaze to Lance's. Lance preferred when he wasn't initiating eye contact. "This is none of your business."

"Oh, yeah?" He juts out his chest in defiance. "Well, I'm making it my business. Ever heard of finders keepers, losers weepers?"

"No." Keith pushes off the kitchen island, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. "What the hell does that even mean?" 

Keith is looming over him now. He risks a swift glance over his shoulder. Shit. He's trapped between Keith and the storage compartment, back flush against the refrigerator. _Nice going, Lance_. "Don't move any closer-" 

Keith extends a cautious hand. 

Lance mistakes it for an attack and careens sharply to the left. The sudden lurch makes him lose his footing; he stumbles, the heels of his boots slipping on the squeaky clean tiles. 

In his panicked state, he thrusts out his arms in an attempt to break the momentum, but it only throws him off balance even further. With a frightened cry, and an unwelcome feeling of vertigo in his stomach, he braces for impact. 

 _Smack_! 

Pinpricks of pain shoot up his shoulder blade. ("Ow, ow, I think I dislocated my shoulder.") His eyes are tightly screwed shut, and his hands...are fisting cloth? 

He curiously cracks an eye open. 

And his breath hitches in his throat.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this all in one sitting. Procrastination at its finest. :^)

Any semblance of his manliness crashes and burns like a kamikaze dive.

Keith's firm, yet incredibly gentle, touch sends an electric current coursing through his bloodstream.  As it passes his lungs, it whisks his breath away and leaves him deprived of air. Where the tips of his fingers comes into contact with Lance, warmth seeps through the vermillion clothing into his body.

It burns hotter than the white, excruciating pain stinging the joint of his shoulder. 

All in one breath, he's suddenly aware of Keith's every touch, and, with a prickling irritation, the predicament they were in. 

Keith is dipping him; not like a tortilla chip in a bowl of mashed guacamole, but in a salsa dance. One tensed arm is encircled protectively around Lance's waist, nearly constricting his midriff; its twin is tucked under the back of his cranium, hefting his head a mere three centimeters off the ground. 

Oh, dear lord. His eyes.

Keith's optics are tender and soft, like a melted glacier, regarding him with a genuine concern that tugs at his heart strings and reduces his thoughts to nothing. He finds himself lost in the pools of brilliant blue; no, electric blue, as electric as the adrenaline crackling his spine. As electric as the current that swept through his entire being. 

He hadn't known a convicted hitman was capable of conveying such an emotion. 

And it's in that very moment that he realizes with a start: Keith had rebelled against his self-preservation instincts to ensure Lance was unharmed in his fall.

It's oddly befitting, and, his mind tells him, it's a very Keith-like deed of him to do. 

"Sanchez." His surname rolls off of Keith's tongue with ease, and he nearly misses the slight catch in his voice.

Lance isn't the only one breathless; due to their close proximity, he can feel the shudder that runs through the boy, can feel the strength falter in the boy's hands that are cradling him in an embrace. 

Keith wets his chapped lips with a swipe of his tongue. Lance attempts not to stare too much. "Sanchez. I-"

 _Crack_!

The pane of glass serving as a window shakes in its frame. It's the only warning they get, before the window adjacent to them implodes inwards. 

A shower of pulverized glass rains down on the shocked pair. Each individual shard winks under the glow of the sun, momentarily blinding Lance. His mind somehow manages to make out a sleek form sailing past the opening in the gaping window through the haze of disarray and chaos. In mid-fall, the mass of black untucks itself from its curled position and stops short to its knees. 

He narrows his eyes into a squint. A buzzed undercut, a frazzled white fringe...Shiro? 

Oops. He'd skipped phase three and had delved straight into phase four: unlatching the window. 

Presently, Shiro raises his shadowed face and unhinges his mouth to speak. Then, he quickly snaps his jaw shut. Whatever he was about to say dies almost instantly upon seeing Keith. 

As he rakes his critical gaze over Keith's hunched figure, his stormy gray optics sharpen into silver lightning.

None of the trio move; not even an inch. 

Wordlessly, Shiro rises from his kneeling position. The action causes glass to crunch beneath the soles of his shoes. (Lance wants to harshly grate his teeth together. What a horrendous noise.) The man rotates his broad shoulders, and the motion reopens his wound, soaking the bandages in red. But before Lance can admonish him, Shiro sharply interjects. "What're you doing to him? Release Lance at once." 

Lance recovers first. He takes advantage of Keith's frozen state, prying himself from the death-grip the boy has on in. Extending his hands, palms outwards, to Shiro, he snaps his head left to right in jerky movements. "Wait, Shiro, let me explain-"

"You." Keith slants his visages into narrowed slits, flashing as he held Lance prisoner with his hardened gaze. The previous warmth was history. "You untied him?" 

Lance visibly flinches. He seeks for Shiro's guidance, but the millennial doesn't spare him a single look. "I couldn't just leave him. He was _dying_." 

"That's the idea." It's said deadpann. Keith closes his eyes, as if he was nursing a headache, before exhaling a sigh of frustration. "Fuck. Major change of plans." 

Shiro looks more enraged by Keith's vulgar language than by his arranged death. "Keith."

Woah, hold on. Keith and Shiro were on a first name basis? Well, Lance and Shiro were, but that didn't count, because when he'd called him 'Takashi,' Shiro had said it sounded far too formal for his taste, (his commander had always called him Shiro) and had requested to be called by his given name, but- 

Something pinged in his ear. 

"It worked!" Exclaimed directly into said ear. Pidge and her excellent timing. "I mean, of course it did. Anyway, Gyeong, I managed to reprogram your device so that your transmitter automatically accepts my calls without consent-" 

She paused abruptly. Visuals were enabled. Lance could see the gears turning in her head. "Should I even ask?"

As if on cue, heavy footfalls pound down the hallway. Lance wants to both groan in exasperation and huddle in a corner, curl into a tight, compact ball, and cry. "Lance? You alright in there? I thought I heard something break-"

A brief summary of what was going down in the Garrett Residence: Shiro and Keith are having a staring fest, Pidge is quirking a questioning eyebrow at Lance, Lance's brain is short-circuiting, and Hunk...

Speaking of Hunk, there he is now. The poor, confused boy stops shy of the threshold, surveys the destruction, and then sheepishly scratches his cheekbone. "Uh..."

And then he perks up, like an overexcited puppy rewarded for being a 'good boy.' "Woah, is that Katie Holt?" 

"Katie what now? I thought it was Pidge Gunderson?" Lance inputs, flitting his gaze between all four. 

"That's her pseudonym." Hunk warily eyes Keith. "Lance, you remember Katie, right? She's a freshman at our school."

"Katie?" Shiro blinks rapidly and gawks at the hologram. 

"Ohh, Holt's baby sister?" Lance draws the connections. "Didn't she make it into the top ten rankings or something?"

"She sure did. Holy quiznack, you have her number-"

 _Bam_! 

The wooden table splinters, beyond repair, under the force of Keith's balled up fist. All side conversations cease. 

"I don't have time for this." Keith roughly shoulders past Hunk, none too kindly. "Gunderson, I'll find a way to contact you." 

"I don't think so, Garrett."

"I'm Garrett. He's Sanchez."

"Sanchez."

" _I'm_ Sanchez-" 

"And you." Keith throws a sidelong glance over his shoulder to scrutinize Lance. "Stay out of my life." 


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Keith and Allura will be having, and I quote, "strong and emotional interactions" in season two. :-) I'm okay,,
> 
> And apparently Shiro was canonically wearing an instructor's uniform? Meaning he's Keith's teacher. Called it.

The sun slowly rises up from the horizon, pouring life back into the bleak world. Fowls of every color of the spectrum flits from tree limb to tree limb, feathers fluffed against the bone-numbing chill. From their parted, glinting beaks are musical tunes, the sweet melodies acompanied by the lone warble of a...warbler.

Within the vicinity of a cozy cottage, a scoop of butter sizzles in a heated pan, hissing and popping like a miniature bonfire. Tarnished silverware clanks against the bottom of a skillet, spreading the melting sustenance around. A commercial for Autoparts plays nearby, occupying the serene silence in the crisp, morning air. 

Not thirty seconds later was the advertisement drowned out by an agonized holler, setting off a flock of singing birds into the waking sky.

" _Motherfucker_!"

Lance retracts his hand, popping his recently burnt thumb into his mouth. His eyes begin to moisten with tears-the lingering pain hurts like a...like a...motherfucker. 

Once the pain subsides, (which takes longer than he'd like it to) he sticks his hand under the running faucet and takes a brief moment to relish the cold tempature of the tap water, before heaving an overtly dramatic sigh. "The things I do for Shiro." 

The day previous, Shiro had been the bigger man and had followed after the enraged Keith. Not only was he somehow able to convince the Korean into staying, but he had also paid for the expenses for the damages to the household, and (Lance was certain it was because of Shiro's charm) had managed to persuade Mrs. and Mr. Garrett into spending the rest of the summer at an exquisite hotel. 

Half of Lance was hanging out the doorway when Shiro had said, "Lance, I expect you to patch things up between you and Keith."

"But _Shiro_ ,"He'd whined querulously. Real mature. "It's not _my_ fault he-" 

"It takes both sides to build a bridge."

"What do bridges have to do with-"

"Lance." The note of finality allowed no room for further arguement. He had no choice but to yield. 

"Fine." Lance threw up his hands in defeat. "But don't say I didn't try. Talking to him is like talking to a friggin' wall." 

A smile, full of gratitude and warmth, lifted the corner of Shiro's mouth as he gently squeezed Lance's shoulder with his one and only hand. "Thank you." He then began to absently palm the strained muscle between his own neck and his shoulder. "I know Keith can be a little-"

"Bitch?" Lance supplied. 

"Uncooperative, at times, but you have to be patient with him." 

"What happened to this being a two person effort-" He started to object when an unpleasant, intruding thought occurred to him. His voice suddenly failed him, and he swallowed thickly. He almost didn't want to ask what had been bothering him the entirety of the trip. Unfortunately, curiosity got the best of him; just like the cat. "So. What's your history with Gyeong?" 

The very color drained from Shiro's face; his skin had turned into a sickly pale white, similar to that of his fringe. "I...t-there isn't much of a history. We were close once, but now...it's, it's not the same anymore." 

Lance knew he was treading on unwelcome territory, and rapidly approaching a sensitive topic, but he pressed on. "There's definitely something going on between you two," He insisted. "More than meets the eye." 

Shiro's smile was a thin, taut, and an obviously faux line. "There's absolutely nothing go-" He finally relented, pasting a palm to his forehead. "There's no use in pretending, is there? Yes, there's something going on between Keith and I."

"Oh." There was a sinking sensation in his heart. "Okay. Yeah. Okay." 

"But," Shiro chuckled lightly, a sound that vaguely reminded him of a father's, "It isn't the kind of something you two shared in the kitchen." 

Lance let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Phew. For a second there, I thought-" His eyes enlargened. "Wait. _Wait_ -" 

Shiro's wholehearted laugh rang pleasantly through the air. 

* * *

He rapped the back of his knuckles on the paneled door. "Hey, open up. I brought you some breakfast."

Lance recieved no response. Irritation pricked at him, manifesting in his second, but more forceful, set of knocking. "Gyeong, dude, come on, open up." 

He was balancing a plate heaping with mushy potatoes, greasy bacon, and a steaming omelette, with a tall glass filled to the brim with orange juice, in the crook of his arm; he hadn't the faintest clue what Keith's preferences were, so he'd gone with the first things he'd seen in the fridge. Improvisation. 

"Gyeong. Seriously, don't make me bust down this mother effer, because I will." He pressed an ear against the wooden door. He didn't detect anything on the other side; no shuffling, no 'go away,' nothing. Just emptiness. 

Shiro had said he'd be difficult, but man, he hadn't mentioned how Keith was as stubborn as hell. Or a deep sleeper. Or that he jumps through windows from second floors. 

The first thing that caught Lance's immediate attention when he'd entered was the unmade bed, absent of Keith. The thick sheets were disheveled and rumpled, tossed about during slumber. Then, he slid his gaze towards the unlocked window, the drawn, beige drapes flapping in the breeze. 

He dropped the hearty meal and tripped down the staircase. 

* * *

"Let me get this straight." 

Lance was pacing the distance between the kitchen island and the cupboard, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Hunk took a swig of his chocolate milk. A ridiculous-looking mustache coated his upper lip when he lowered the cup. "So, from what I can recall, what you're saying is that he jumped the whole sixteen feet down without breaking a sweat."

"And without breaking a bone."

"Woah. Cool." Lance paused his frantic footsteps. 

"No, not cool Hunk. You know why?" He didn't wait for a response. "He's out there, in _my_ body, doing who knows what. And you know what makes it worse? Shiro trusted me with him. _Shiro_. He could've at least left me a note or a heads up or..." 

Hunk drained the last of his concoction of cheap powdered chocolate and boiling hot water. "You're not his baby sitter, Lance. He's gonna be fine." He stared sadly down at his emptied mug. "Plus, he's like, what, our age?" 

Lance carded a frustrated hand through his matte black mullet. "It doesn't matter, bro. I lost him, and now Shiro's going to come back, only to find out that I'd lost him, like the irresponsible kid that I am-" 

"Did you try calling him?" Lance appeared startled, as if he'd never heard of such a blasphemous concept before. 

"What?" 

"Or at least calling Katie? She might have some sorta clue." 

Lance was dubious, but honestly, what other option did he have?

He activated the wireless earpiece. 

The sight that greeted him sent him snorting in laughter. (No, Keith's laugh wasn't pretty, quiet you.) Three coffee-stained cups were surrounding Pidge's head, where she was resting her cheek against her interlaced arms. Her fatigued eyes were rimmed with dark half-circles, resembling the markings of a mangy raccoon, and her hair was pinned up with a mechanic pencil, the disaster of russet locks pooling down her neck in streams. 

"Screw you," She mumbled as she muffled a wide yawn behind her fingers. Stretching her stiff limbs, and rolling back her shoulders to loosen up the kinks in her biceps, she said, "Pidge one one, what's your emergency?" 

"Do you, by any chance, know where Sanchez is?"

Pidge rubbed groggily at her drooping eyelids with balled up fists. "No? What gave you the idea that I do? It's not like I pinned a tracker to him or anything."

"..."

A heartbeat later, an address he didn't recognize popped up in the left hand corner of the hologram. 

"If you need anything else, don't feel free to bother me. I have better things to do; like homework for AP classes."  

Hunk's eyes lit up; he shot up from his stool and squeezed into the small space beside Lance. "AP? Are you taking all five courses?"

"Yep. Including zero period," She confirmed, leaning back in her swivel chair. "I finally know how it feels to be dead and alive at the same time. It's a surreal experience."

"Does honors count?" Lance was desperate to be included. 

"That's equal to pre-AP, isn't it? I'm not too sure." Hunk thoughtfully tapped his chin with a finger. 

Pidge turned to the deflating Cuban. "Oh, and beeteedubs, I wouldn't go after him if I were you." 

"What do you mean?" 

A grainy photograph blinked in the right hand side of the transparent screen. 

"He's executing a transaction at the moment. Assuming you paid attention during class, you should know what this is." A glass jar containing a glowing liquid, like honey-colored molasses, was excessively circled in green. 

Hunk gasped softly. "Isn't that quintessence?"

"The illegal, lethal drug, banned eons ago." The image faded from view. 

Lance was too occupied in muttering about something that sounded like 'he's a killer and a drug dealer?' and 'oh, fuck me,' so Hunk posed the question for the both of them. "Why're you trusting us with this, uh, information?" 

Pidge scrubbed at her smudged spectacles with a Kleenex. "Several things to consider: one, no one would believe you. Two: the government wouldn't take any course of action without solid evidence. And three: the majority of people wouldn't take adolescents seriously. Adults are more reliable to them, for some unknown reason." 

"Ah." Hunk snapped his fingers. "Gotcha." 

They commenced conversing; it wasn't until hours later that Hunk realized Lance had slipped out the door and had abandoned the device on the countertop.

* * *

"What is this place?"

Lance meticulously peered into the dark alleyway, scrunching up his nose as the smell of decay and sewage infiltrated his nostrils. His face contorted with disgust as he regarded the musty dumpsters and drainage-water sloshed walls. "Gross." 

At the far end of the back alley, a steel grate rattled open. A bald man in a pristine suit and a scowling face beckoned Lance over. "Mista Gyeong. Business with the Galra?" He had a distinct accent; a New Yorker, maybe. 

Okay, Lance thought. More to add to the list of things Keith was. Galran. "Yeah. I'm here to sell the quin-"

The bodyguard harshly shushed him. "Ay, ay, ay, pipe it down, woncha? We can't go 'round sayin' classified info." 

"Riiiight." Lance drawled his vowels as he stood on the tips of his shoes, looking over the space above the thickset man's shoulder. The afternoon light was swallowed by the darkness of the hallways. 

"McClain your partner?"

"McWho?" 

"McClain. Mexican kid, this tall, short 'air." Lance resisted the temptation to knock the ignorant man's teeth out. 

"I'd recognize that description anywhere." Not the Mexican part. What the hell. He was Cuban. "Where's he now?" 

"Down the foyer. Turn right. Door's open. Can't miss it." 

Lance followed the given directions with a new, additional grudge. 

It was difficult to navigate with the lack of light; he was forced to rely on his sense of touch. Three bruises and driving his knee into a hard object ("I swear that wasn't there before") later, he pinpointed the room's exact location. 

Without much of a plan, other than to return safely with Keith, he sauntered through the entrance.

* * *

"Do we have a deal?" Keith's calculating eyes challenged his fellow workers to decline. 

"Of course, Mr.McClain." Sendak produces a neat stack of currency from the confinements of his tailored pants and lays the thick wad on the oaken table. "Please, tell me again why Mr.Gyeong was unable to attend?" 

Keith, after sifting through the bills, stashed the bundle away in one of Lance's many pockets. "Jury duty." 

"Hm. That's interesting." A sinister smile enveloped Sendak's face. "Then do tell me why Mr.Gyeong is standing at the door."

Keith blinked in mild surprise, before slackening back into a neutral expression. If you blinked, you'd miss it. 

"Early release." He scraped back his chair, straightening to his full height. "One sec. I need to discuss pricing with Mr.Gyeong."

He shot Lance a ‘say something and I'll kill you’ look, before steering the both of them out of the spacious room.

His eyes darted around the area, searching for prying eyes. Once he secured the perimeter, he said dryly, “What part of 'stay out of my life' don't you understand?” 

Lance deeply scowled. "All the parts? You get along with everyone _but_ me. What the quiznack did I do?" 

“You've done enough already.” Keith didn't elaborate any further. 

" _Ugh_. You're impossible." Then, his tone grew desperate. "Would you just...I don't know, talk to me?"

"I am." Keith was only left more befuddled when Lance growled in exasperation. 

"No, I meant like a one on one talk. About the..." An unmistakable blush burned Lance's cheeks. Was it drafty in here? Keith was going to request better heating. "You know. The...the soulmate thing." 

"Oh." Keith felt an indescribable twinge in his stomach. What was that? "That thing. Some other time." 

"Is this how it's gonna be? You're only gonna talk to me when you have time?" Keith was all too familiar with that tone. 

Betrayal.

"Yeah." That response sounded weak. He quickly amended with, "Sorry." 

The stern expression on Lance's face didn't lessen. "Know what? Never mind. Let me know when I'm relevant enough to you." 

This time, it was Lance who left Keith staring after him. 


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get yourselves some friends like Lance's. (: The real MVPs.  
> Today's chapter isn't as >:/ as the others. You're welcome.

Three distinct individuals are huddled around a herculean physique, whose weight is positioned against the chipped leg of a heavy duty workbench.

A fourth is standing sedately off in the background, diligently whittling at an uneven chunk of wood with a serrated knife.

Admist the trio is Lance. It's a struggle to see anything in the unaired garage; the swinging, cadmium yellow beam overhead bears poor lighting. He's forced to squint.

 _Screech_!

The luster, metal plating strains under the pressure of the heat-induced pliers. Her eyebrows knit in intense concentration, Pidge enforces the scrap into place, soot-coated hands kept steady, and the grip on the overused handles vise-like.

The aluminum panel groans in protest as it's malleated and reconstructed. After more tinkering, her face shield lifts with a hiss, and, as if the release of air is her cue, settles back onto her haunches to admire her handiwork. "There. That should do the trick."

With a press of a button, the newly manufactured prototype hums to life, swathing the carport in a deep fuschia color.

Shiro dazedly nods his thanks, far too captivated by the finished product to form coherent words. He experimentally flexes his artificial hand; the prosthetic arm processes the command and smoothly carries out the procedure.

Hunk is equally as awestruck; in fact, he looks like he's about to pass out from sheer excitement. "Katie? That is seriously so awesome. I can't believe you made that out of spare car parts."

Fullfulment gleams in Pidge's amber optics as she rid the oil staining her hands onto a tattered rag. "You give me way too much credit. All it takes, really, is a basic understanding of mechanics and one overly complicated manual."

"Gunderson." Keith holds up the block of wood in his line of sight. The slab was beginning to take shape. "Just take the compliment. Not that hard."

Lance resists the urge to launch himself across the table to strangle the insular male. For some unidentified reason, everything Keith did or said nowadays riled him up and made him want to puncture a hole in the wall. 

Was it, perhaps, because of the grudge he was holding against Keith in their last encounter? Maybe it was resentment? Or did he wake up on the wrong side of bed this morning? Debatable. 

There's a twinkle of deviltry in Lance's eyes. If he remembers correctly, Pidge still has no clue they'd swapped bodies. Which means...

Lance barely manages to contain his oncoming smile. "Sorry for being uptight all the time, Pidge. I just have a knife crammed up my ass."

Tears of ecstasy spring in Hunk's eyes as he tries to suppress his laughter, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Pffft-"

Lance blatantly ignores the dirty look Keith shoots him, pointedly making a show of studying his (what in tarnation are these) cuticles. 

He continues to smugly revel in his victory as Shiro clears his throat to regather their full, undivided attention. "Thank you, once again, Katie, for everything you've done. I can't stress enough how truly grateful I am."

Pidge abashedly shrinks against the work table, wringing the frayed towel in her hands. She suddenly finds the floor interesting; a human infatuation that has been reoccurring throughout the centuries. "It's nothing too major. It-it isn't mandatory to thank me."

Oh. Judging from her reaction, Pidge probably doesn't receive many praises. 

Because he was a kind and generous man, Lance steals the spotlight to save her from further embarrassment. He circles around Shiro, sharp chin cupped in the groove of his palm and eyebrow arched critically. Bending over at the waist to the Japanese man's level, he taps on the cooling metal.  _Twang_. "It's nicely done and all, but is it waterproof?" 

Relieved, Pidge drapes the oily rag over one shoulder. "Good question, Gyeong." She removes her face shield, shaking out her nest of hair. "No. _But_ ," She points to a button. "I implemented a feature that allows you to detach the arm."

"What about a cup holder?" 

"...Consider it done." 

"Well." Shiro straightens up to his full height, dusting off the dust that had accumulated on his pants. "I think I overstayed my welcome. It was nice hanging out together as a group."  

They all brightened up simultaneously, as if they were let on a big secret Lance wasn't a part of. Pidge collected her multipurpose tools a little too eagerly and informed loudly, "I have to attend to some business eccentric...business, and recalibrate complex technical...stuff." 

"My stomach feels like it's about to combust. Nature's calling," Hunk announced, his sentences too rushed and jumbled to pass as natural. 

The triad exchanged hasty looks, before bolting out the bay doors in a scattered stream. Prominently leaving Lance and Keith behind. Alone. In the same room. In the dark. Those sneaky bastards-

Although Keith's expression was unreadable, Lance knew fully well the other male was waiting to be acknowledged. 

Lance placed a hand on his protruded hip. "Sorry, I was thinking about myself, did you need anything?"

Keith scoffed. "Oh, really?"

"You don't trust me?" He snapped crossly, despite the notion that he, in actuality, hadn't been thinking about himself. 

"Trust has nothing to do with it." Keith applied the finishing touches to his not-so-blocky wood block, sheathing his elegant weapon in his holster. "Heads up."

Lance caught the object in midair, curling his fingers around the delicate shape. Sweeping his gaze over it with minimal time to register what he'd seen, he stuffed the item into one of Keith's mostly empty fannypacks, save for a handful of lint balls and pocket change. "Thanks."

And then the strangest thing he'd ever witnessed happened. Keith smiled.

"Yeah. Hunk told me you like those, so..." He non-comitally shrugged up his shoulders. "Yeah. Uh...I'm free tomorrow if you're still up for it. My schedule's almost cleared up, so, uh, yeah." 

Lance stared in disbelief. Here was composed, I-couldn't-care-less Keith, a stammering mess, who couldn't go one minute without his favorite combination of "so, uh, and yeah." He seemed to clam up whenever anything remotely humane and personal happened. 

There was an expectant look plastered to Keith's face, like his entire life depended on Lance's answer. He considered declining just to toy with Keith, but he decided it was too cruel, even for him. (He was still pretty salty about last time. Keith hadn't went out of his way to apologize.) "Sounds good. Catch you later?" 

"You want me to fall?" 

"What?" Classic Keith. "No, it's a phrase. It's just another way of saying 'goodbye.'" 

"Oh, okay. Then yeah." Keith threw a leg over the leather-bound seat, mounting his scarlet motorcycle. "I'll catch you later, Lance." He kickstarted the vehicle, cooly waved a hand in farewell without bothering to glance over his shoulder, and departed.

Lance let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Talking to Keith took an unnecessary amount of effort. Every conversation they exchanged rendered him breathless.

He slowly unzipped the pouch, rummaging around until his fingers knocked against the gift. 

He weighted it in his palm. It was light, no larger than a polished rock, and it had lingering warmth from Keith's hand. 

Lance ran the pad of his thumb over the fine artistry, feeling every little nook and cranny. Each groove and detail was intricate, dutifully carved and pleasant to the eye. 

He cradled the wooden sculpture close to his heart. Keith had crafted an ornate conch shell out of a piece of the workbench.

It was his own form of an apology. 

* * *

"What's taking him so long?" Allura peered through the peephole, squinting into the narrow hallway. "Surely he has nothing better to do." 

"Do you think something happened to him?" Hunk began to anxiously gnaw at his fingernails. "Oh, quiznack. I was right. I told Shiro it wouldn't end well if we left them alone. I knew it, but I didn't do anything to stop him." His eyes bulged out of their sockets. "Oh, quiznacking quiznack. What if he's dying? What if we're too late and he's already dead? What if-"

The hinges squeaked as the fiberglass door swung inwards, revealing a content-looking Lance. Upon seeing Allura, he leaned awkwardly against the doorway and attempted to appear casual. "H-Hey, princess! And Hunk, my buddy! What're you guys doing here?"

"Never call me that again." Allura defiantly crossed her slender arms over her bosoms. She was currently adorned in fitness gear, billowy, silver hair swept back by a headband. 

"We were checking up on you," Hunk explained as he enveloped Lance into a furious bear hug. "I'm so glad you're okay. I thought you left me for good."

Lance returned the affectionate gesture with just as much vigor. "Buddy, it'd take more than a knife to take me down." 

"Ahem."

"Oh, right." Hunk released Lance. "Allura's bench press broke down and I need my equipment to repair it." 

Lance's mouth comically fell open. "Wha-wha? You bench press?"  

"Maintaining my fitness is a must," She verified in a matter-of-fact tone. She didn't understand what was so shocking about exercising. "Staying healthy and in shape is vital-" Her gaze suddenly lit up. "Lance! Where on earth did you get that?"

"Get what?" Lance patted himself down; and froze upon spotting what made her gasp. "That? Oh. It was, um, I got it at the ninety nine cents store."

"What beautiful craftsmanship." Allura reached out a hand, as if to touch the wooden shell. "May I...?" 

"Yeah, sure. Go for it." 

Whilst Allura cooed over the item, Hunk deeply scrutinized the Cuban. "Lance..." 

"Shut up, Hunk." A red hue dusted Lance's cheekbones. They both knew very well he hadn't purchased it at the local convenience store. 

Allura turned the seashell sculpture over in her hands. "Not only is it visually appealing, but the symbolic meaning behind it...it's oh so wonderful." 

"Say what now?"

"A shell represents the protective quality of love. It shields the creature inhabiting it from the dangers of the outer world." Allura smiled fondly down at the trinket. 

Lance, on the other hand, looked like he shriveled up and died. "It had to be a coincidence," He was mumbling quietly to no one in particular. "He didn't know. Yeah, Hunk told him, so...but Hunk didn't know the meaning. Holy shit." 

"You're spacing out on us, bro." 

Lance snapped out of his revelation. "Shit. Sorry." He began to palm the back of his neck. "So how long does the switch last?" 

"Allow me, Allura. Soulmate talk is my thing." Hunk readjusted the lapels of his pea green jacket. "First, let's define what a soulmate is. According to B'shert by Coran, there's no real definition of a soulmate. That's up for you to decide. It's fascinating, really, because not one person has had the same experience as another, with the whole body swapping and the 'finding the one' thing. It's one of the greatest mysteries known to mankind, and it's still being researched to modern day. Oh, yeah, and did I mention I read something interesting from an article a while back? Well-" 

" _Boring,"_  Lance interrupted. "Hunk, buddy; just tell me how and when I'll be back in my own body." 

Hunk wasn't too happy at being cut off, but he continued nonetheless. "There isn't exactly a dated time, but basically, all you have to do is have mutual feelings and a great love fest and bam," He slammed his fist into his palm for emphasis, "you're back to normal." 

"Does hatred count?"

"I wonder how that'd sound like." Hunk changed his voice a few octaves. "Oh Keith, I hate you so much!" He transitioned to baritone. "I feel the same way, Lance! Now let's make sweet hate together!" 

"Hunk," Allura warned.

"Sorry. But c'mon, Lance, the cosmos thought you two would make a perfect pair. Give it some time, and you'll be head over heels for each other in no time."

"So you're okay with him? Being...you know what?" 

"For the most part, yes." Allura offered her insight. "He hasn't exactly hurt any of you. It's been a year since his last...massacre. Perhaps meeting Lance will change his ways for the better."

"Agreed." Hunk shared his perspective. "He's a pretty decent guy once you get to know him. Give him a chance. You might not regret it." 

Lance's hand closed around the wooden shell. "I hope so." 


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that one post about lactose intolerant Keith. C':

Broiling water files down the pewter faucet in a heavy curtain as he turns the dial, pummeling the expanse of his back with hot pellets. The kinks tensing his shoulders and the entirety of his lithe build instantly unknot under the spray of water; his lips part to expel a contented surrus of breath. 

Lance lathers his mesh of coal black hair, massaging languidly at his scalp until frothy soap suds form a crown of bubbles. It's a weird sensation, cleaning and rinsing someone else's body; he's so accustomed to his own, familiar and washed frequently, that he forgets for a split second that he _isn't_ in his own. 

His soaked face burns like a heated oven when his hands travel downwards to scrub the foaming product over his water-slicked collarbone. It feels so...invasive, like he's violating Keith's privacy. What's a more vulnerable moment than being nude? His heavy eyelids flutters shut, and he forces his mind to focus on the pounding of the water against the tiles.

"Don't think about, don't think about it," He mutters into the steam. An avalanche of emotions suddenly overwhelm him, and he presses his forehead against the cool wall to avoid keeling over. "What the quiznack is wrong with me? He literally has everything I do. There's nothing to be embarrassed about." 

He tangles his fingers into his dripping wet hair and, in a bout of anger, tugs at the dark strands. "God, I hate the effect he has on me. I can't...I can't stop thinking about him, and it  _annoys_ me." Thinking about Keith takes up all the space in his brain and leaves minimal room for girls. He hates it, he hates the situation, he hates how attached he is, he hates _him_ -

Lance's eyes enlarge. He slowly slides his hands from where they're holding the back of his cranium, examines them for an extended duration of time, and then takes a sharp intake of air. "Oh my god."

Where there should be healthy skin, his palms are horrendously marred and discolored. 

* * *

"Keith, cut down on the dairy." Shiro watches the gloomy teen relentlessly chug one carton of milk after another with reproach. "You're going to die at this rate." 

Keith maintains direct eye contact long enough to allow him a long draft of the heterogenous beverage. He sets down the nearly empty container with a defiant  _thunk_. "I hope it kills me."

Knowing it was no use talking sense into the boy, Shiro studies his sparkling apple cider, swirling the carbonated juice in his glass originally intended for champagne. It was pleasant being on good terms with Keith again, and catching up over non-alcoholic drinks. (Keith was underage and Shiro could barely withstand a cup of fizzling beer.) However, this was not how he'd imagine their dusk together.

Shiro pushes his untouched drink aside. "Just make sure you take your medication. It's stored in the medicine cabinet-" 

"Lay off, Shiro," The Korean mumbles around the lip of the carton. "I'm almost eighteen."

"Keith, Lance deserves to know the truth."

Keith's shoulders rack with a hiccup, eyes downcast. "I know. I'm working on it."

Shiro wasn't at all convinced, but he didn't push any further. Instead, he chose to bring up an unresolved issue. "And...about the day I left-"

"Drop it," Keith snapped harshly, hand waving about the air in dismissal. "I get it. You had your reasons. What's done is done."

"Keith-"

"I _said_ -" He suddenly turned as silent and as motionless as a stone statue. 

"What happened?" Shiro was half-expecting the boy to slump over and sport the protruding handle of a knife lodged between his shoulder blades, the other half expecting Keith to double over and retch all the milk he'd consumed. "Are you okay?" 

"Crap." Keith crushed the container in his fist. "I forgot to tell Lance I'm lactose intolerant." 

* * *

"Rate your pain." 

"On a scale of one to ten? Eleven." Lance executes a jittery dance on the ceramic toilet seat as he balances the old-fashioned phone on the platform of his shoulder. His movements were, however, restricted, as his leggings were outrageously tight. "Imagine a bulldozer. Now imagine that same bulldozer driving over my stomach."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or just dramatic." There's a slight pause on the other end. Then: "Hmm...yeah, definitely dramatic." 

"Wow. I knew I could count on you, Hunk." A wave of nausea hits Lance and, in the haziness of his mind, he gulps down the acidic vomit rising in his throat. Yuck. "C'mon, man, help out a bro in need. You're seriously still hung up over that slice of cake?"

"Yes." Hunk harrumphed, sniffling woefully. "I was saving that for a special occasion. Y'know, for my fifth _anniversary_." 

"Dude, I already said I was sorry." Lance thumps his lower abdomen in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain. "Look, I didn't know, okay?"

Hunk grunts.

"Fine." Lance resorts to plan B; bribing. "How about this? I buy you a new cake. And, guess what? You get to eat the _entire_ thing, all by yourself. Just you, and that cake. I'll even wrap it up and everything. Put a cute little bow on it." 

Hunk hums. "Tempting."

"But here's the thing: you have to hand over the phone to Shay. Fair trade?" 

Silence. Then Hunk's faraway voice, growing fainter with every word: "Okay, I concede. But don't get me wrong, it's not because of the food; you sound miserable." 

He was. In every sense of the word. 

"Hello, Sanchez! It has been an awfully long time since we last spoke, has it not?" Shay's polite greeting. The girl never failed to surprise him; her motherly personality greatly contrasted her masculine appearance. "Hunk has told me about your illness. Unfortunately, it is incurable."

"Incurable? As in, I can't get rid of the pain incurable, or in general incurable?"

"In general. You cannot digest milk, for you lack the lactase to." Wow. He felt sorry for Keith. Props to him.

"So...is there anything that'll make me feel better? A magical pill or something that'll make me feel like I could run around the entire world in ten seconds flat?" 

"That's impractical," Hunk comments, to which Shay gently shushes him.

"I am very sorry, Sanchez. There is not much more I can do." Both Lance and his gurgling stomach groan at her sympathetic voice. " _But_ ," His chest flares with hope. "It is advised to take dietary supplements."

"You _do_ know what those are, right?" An explosion of sound filters through the cellular device. Shay, a nuse intern, had whacked her boyfriend with the phone. "Shay, ow, I was kidding-"

A faint smile softens Lance's pained expression. He stays on the line to listen to the happy couple playfully bickering, before flipping the cover shut. 

* * *

"You're not gonna fall."

Lance glares skeptically at the motorcycle nestled between Keith's legs. According to said boy, it was a state of the art motorcycle. Able to cover 200mph and owning a sleek, modern design, this baby was sick. (Just like me, Lance thought. Literally.) 

"And you know how?" Lance inspects the broad, red panels of the power-running bike.

Keith shoots him a funny look.

"'Cause I'll make sure you don't." He strapped on the helmet that had been tucked away beneath his arm and pitched the extra head protectant to Lance. "You trust me, right? So hop on."

With reluctance, he slid into the vacant space behind Keith, utilizing the tail fairing as a brace. "I can't believe you just used my own words against me."

Keith cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder. "Hey, Lance? I hate to break it to you, but unless you have a death wish, you're gonna have to put your arms around me."

Lance's intelligent response: "Huh?"

"I need you to, you know." Keith made vague gestures with his hands. "Hug me."

"The whole time?" Lance distractedly fumbles with his helmet. "Because I might squeeze you to death. Or, if I fall-and I _know_ I'm gonna fall-I'm gonna take you with me, and it'll be an accidental double suicide. I can see the headlines already: most wanted criminal, death by so-" 

"Lance," Keith says with impatience. "Just hug me." 

With great effort, he pries his fingers from where they were glued to the frame and repositions himself on the rubber seat to press his body flush against Keith's, who stiffened at the contact. He locks his arms around the male's torso and, subtly, leans in close. "There. Happy?" 

Keith rolled his eyes skyward, but the touch of amusement in his optics spoke an entirely different story. "Ecstatic. And don't let go." 

The machine had a life of it's own. As soon as Keith turned on the ignition, it roared with so much ferocity that Lance could feel the engine rumbling through the seat. But before he could share his observations, Keith kicked the vehicle into gear and blasted off.

Due to the abrupt start, Lance lurched forwards and collided into the teen's very much solid back. "Ow!" He yelped as he rubbed at his aching jaw. "Keith, buddy, how about a warning next time-" 

"Hard left." 

Lance screeched like a banshee and clung onto Keith for dear life. Much to his disbelief, they didn't make a hard left; in fact, it was a smooth drift to the right. A muscle in his cheek visibly twitched. "I hate you so much right now." 

"Glad to see we're on the same page, _buddy_." 

Lance bolted upright, fully alert. "Oh, you don't like that?" A mischievous smile expanded on his face. "Sorry, my _bro_ ," He felt Keith's muscles tensing under his hands, "didn't mean to offend you, my _broski_ -" 

The motorcycle narrowly missed an incoming tow truck. Keith caught Lance's gaze in the rear view mirror. "I think you forgot who's driving." 

Lance let out a peal of laughter, which was whisked away by the wind. Messing with Keith was entertaining. "Who's the one that promised he wouldn't let me fall? Let me think. Oh, right, it was you, _babe_ -" 

Keith sharply jerked the handle, and Lance was almost bucked off. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Sorry, no can do. I'm too interesting to shut up." 

"Enlighten me."

"Have you _heard_ my insults? I'm proud of this one: useless paper clip." 

"You're really good at describing yourself." 

"Thanks-wait. Ah, shit. I fell into that one. Hold up; let me think of a comeback." 

They rode on into the city under the pale, golden light of the setting sun, wind whipping back the hair sticking out from under their helmets, and a permanent smile on both boys' faces.

* * *

Lance periodically checked the miniature grandfather clock on the mantelpiece in the grand hotel's lobby every thirty seconds. If he did his math correctly, (which he didn't) this had been going on for five minutes: Keith would say something, and then the employees would giggle shyly behind their hands and respond flirtatiously back. 

"Stay here, Lance, it'll only take me seven minutes," He mimicked in a poor imitation of Keith's voice, (which was his own voice; he didn't notice how high pitched it was until just recently) and reaffixed the uncomfortable bandana secured around his mouth. It was a wonder how a face mask could completely alter a person's image. "Ten at most." 

He glimpsed a small toddler staring up at him in wonder in the corner of his vision and jerked a thumb towards Keith. "Yeah, I know. Guys, am I right?" 

The little girl tugged on her mother's sleeve, whispered excitedly, and pointed in Lance's direction. The woman didn't bother looking up from her magazine, far too engrossed in what was going on in Kim Kardashian's life, licking the pad of her thumb and turning the page. "Mhm. That's nice, dear." 

Keith bounded back with a number card and several slips of paper. "Here. Three potential dates and our room." 

"Isn't that illegal?" Lance, confused but grateful, accepted the offerings. As the assortment of items were exchanged, their fingers ever so slightly brushed; Lance held a collective breath and ignored the delight settling in his chest. "Wait. Dates? I thought this was a d-"

Keith raised a quizzical brow.

"D-Disaster!" He blurted out the first word that came to mind. "Those ladies looked horrified. And you were taking forever. I was starting to grow a beard. See?" He tilted down his chin to show off his jaw, but realized a moment too late that he was wearing a mask. "You know what? Forget that happened. I'm hitting the pool." 

He whirled on his heel and ascended the flight of stairs two steps at a time, coming to a halt on the first landing to catch his breath. When he finally worked up the courage to look back, Keith was smiling fondly down at his hand.

The very hand Lance had touched.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance is in his natural habitat.

Muted light fixtures, various artworks, plush carpets, mellow jazz music, wasted and hypnotized civilians, dinging slot machines, ambient noise, and cute waitresses come together to make up The Arusian Casino. (He'd learned the name from a colorful flyer pinned to a billboard.)

Lance personally preferred the arcade sector of the hotel, where the air was fresh and distinctly smelled of buttered popcorn, but since Keith was here...oh, did he say Keith? He meant smoking hot dancers. Did he also mention that he'd spent half the credits on his card for a measly Deadpool figurine? Lesson learned: don't be an overachiever. (No, he certainly wasn't bitter about a particular youngster who'd won _his_ prize on the first attempt.)

The menacing poker player versing Keith hacks up a puff of cancerous smoke; Lance, with speed that was on par with lightning, clamps a hand over his already clothed mouth. The elderly man, Turtle Boss (Lance's half-assed, conjured-on-the-spot nickname for him), was losing both the game and Lance's dwindling respect for the man. 

Turtle Boss, alias Zarkon, emenated sheer power. His presence alone was authoritative, and an air of superiority lingered about him. The CEO of the Galra Incorporation was accounted for his tyrannical traits and his capability to strike fear into the hearts of even the most masculine of men. But what freaked out Lance were his eyes: empty shells of yellow, like the yolk of eggs.

A chorus of bewildered gasps arises from the throng of bystanders. Zarkon's wizened face morphs into that of loathe at the array of cards displayed before him. "Impossible. This simply cannot be. I have been the undefeated champion for decades. To have a commoner strip this title from me..."

Keith stretches out his lean neck, and the tendons elicite an intimidating crack. The gathered audience swoons, and the clique of babes hanging back by Keith's elbow sigh dreamily.

"You're kidding. You? An undefeated champion?" He rotates a plastic token between his forefinger and the pad of his thumb, examining the coins as if they were constructed of pure gold. "This is child's play." 

" _Ooooh_ ," goes the crowd. Lance can't help but chime in. 

Zarkon practically seethes with anger. The lit cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth drops, and he grinds the cigarette into the floor with the heel of his boot.

"Gyeong?" He barks. "I would like to have a word with you." 

A word? Sex? Okay, he did _not_ need that mental image. "Sorry, Turt-I mean, Mister Zarkon-but I've got places to be. Sights to see. Things to do. You know, the usual. I'm a pretty busy guy." 

"I see. Perhaps it will change your mind if I tell you that it concerns your...older brother." What? Did his ears deceive him? Did he somehow misunderstand? Since when did Keith have an older brother?

"What about him?"

A malicious glint flashes in Zarkon's yolk-colored eyes. "I had a feeling you would be interested, soldier." As he folds his gnarled hands in front of him, his optics seemed to sharpen in the dim half-light. "It has come to my attention that your deadline has been reached. I know fully well that you are a devoted worker, and that your brother is quite the stubborn one; however, this has gone on for far too long..."  

Lance blinked. How was he supposed to respond to that? Ask for a raise? More time? Make up some excuse?

Luckily, he didn't have to respond. At that precise moment, an attractive girl with bleached hair chose to seize Keith's collar and lug the surprised boy off the tripod stool. Her sickenly sweet smile, as she messily crashed their lips together, was the last thing Lance saw, before he was shoved to the edge of the chaotic crowd.

* * *

The black canvas of the night sky is peppered in thousands upon thousands of twinkling stars, winking in and out of existence. The overpowering scent of chemicals and chloramine causes him to wrinkle his nose, but he doesn't withdraw from the outdoor swimming pool. 

Lance is gazing over the edge into the depths of the still water, watching his reflection warp and ripple by the slightest disruptions. He's a pitiful sight; his knees are drawn up to his chest, his arms loosely wound around his legs, and his chin is resting in the fork his knees form.

He's envious of Keith's natural beauty. The boy is, in a word, breathtaking. In fact, he exceeded Lance's expectations by a milestone. The Korean teen practically _oozed_ with sex appeal.

He was quite a remarkable sight to behold.

Keith's structural build isn't necessarily dainty, but it isn't masculine, either, more of the middle ground than one or the other. His skin is a porcelain complexion, not at all like Lance's tan color, and his eyes...oh, his eyes. Where his eyes were the divine hues of captivating magenta. One sweeping look of his gaze and he had married women and the straightest of men fainting on the spot. 

That was actually proven back in the casino. Lance's body or not, Keith had a certain charisma that easily made people drop everything they were doing and turn their heads. (His taste in fashion and hair style, however, was rather questionable.)

And then there were his hands. The very hands that have been bloodied and cleansed, killed and preserved, scarred and been scarred; a never ending rinse and repeat process. But, in the grand scheme of things, what these hands have done no longer matter, because Keith was his soulmate.

And if the universe strongly believed they were compatible, then Lance will, too.

He just has to prove the universe right.

"Hey." Speak of the devil, there he was now. Lance doesn't bother looking up from his distorted image, even as Keith settles down in the empty, unoccupied space beside him. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest." He tries not to dwell too much on the fact that Keith's shoulder is tentatively grazing his flank, or that he finds that he doesn't mind the boy being in his personal bubble. Or that Keith somehow makes him look untouchable, like an optical mirage receding into the distance. Something one desires but cannot reach. 

Keith gently nudges Lance's knees down to plop an ocean blue teddy bear (made to resemble a lion) into his lap. When all he received was an expression of befuddlement, he shrugged leisurely. "I was planning to give it to you earlier, but you left so quickly, and Nyma..."

Lance's heart squeezes painfully in his chest. So it hadn't been a random stranger who'd kissed Keith. His smile is bittersweet as he remarks through gritted teeth, "Why don't you give it to Nyma? I bet _she'd_ love it." 

The corner of Keith's mouth tilts downwards. "I won it for you."

"No you didn't," He surmised. "It was a last minute thing, wasn't it? To win me over or some shit?" 

"What the hell are you going on about?" 

"I get it." Lance abruptly stands up. "You're trying to be nice so that I would forget what you are. So that I won't rat you out to the police."

"What?" Keith cocks his head slightly to the side and pulls a mystified look. "What the fuck lead you to that conclusion?"

"Don't lie to me." Lance's voice is watery and quivers with emotion. He swallows back the lump forming in his throat and glares at Keith through rheumy eyes. "Don't you lie to me, Keith." 

"What makes you think I'm lying?" On the other hand, Keith's voice is raw and hardening with anger. He rises to his feet to meet Lance. "What? I'm a criminal so that automatically makes me a liar?"

Shit. This conversation was not going smoothly. "Keith, that's not-"

"Not everything about me is my murder tendencies, Lance." His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, and his facial expression, always so closely-guarded, cracks to reveal the vulnerable teenager he was supposed to be. "Look, I'm sorry I'm not the girl you've always dreamed of. I'm sorry I'm not what you wished for. I'm sorry that I'm your _soulmate_. But I don't know how to deal with..." He broke off, but Lance knew exactly what he wanted to say. _Love_. "And with everything going on...it's-it's a lot to take in." 

Lance sucks in a deep breath. Exhales shakily. He's suddenly at a loss for words. 

They eventually lapse into silence. The serenity of the night envelops them in a blanket of quietude, the only sound the city life below, and the gentle lapping of water against Lance's shins. 

It feels as though they were secluded from the rest of the world, with what the absence of pedestrians on the rooftop provided.

He can't remember when it happened, or how, but they're both sitting on the rim of the pool, resuming their positions. His cheek is resting against the broad of Keith's chest, and Keith has his arm gingerly draped around his shoulders, as if he was afraid the weight of the limb would shatter Lance. 

Lance listens to the rapid beating of Keith's heart, the rattling of his breath, before, with reluctance, pulling away. "Keith, man, I had no idea-"

"Lance, I've been meaning to tell you-"

They stare at each other for several heartbeats, before Keith insists, "You go first."

"No, no," Lance disputes. "The stage is all your's."

Keith looked like he was about to protest, but doesn't. Instead, he heaves out a sigh and shifts on the ledge to gaze fully into Lance's eyes. "Do you remember the first time we met?"

Lance hugs the stuffed animal to his chest, burying his face in the fluffy mane. His voice comes out muffled by the ticklish hairs. "In Hunk's bedroom? Yeah, that's not the most ideal first meeting-"

"No." Keith lightly shakes his head no. "Before that."

Lance peeks out over the top of the plushie's head. "We met before that?" He ponders this over, before puppeteering Blue the lion to shrug. "Yeah, sorry, don't remember." 

There's an intense sense of longing and urgency in Keith's eyes. Lance is reminded of a desperate, sex-deprived, and hormonal boy craving sexual intercourse. "The Garrison? Gum? Fights?  _Come on_." 

Lance gazes at Keith with vacant eyes for a long while. There was only _one_  person who matched those descriptions. "How do you know about my rival?" 

A disgruntled noise of frustration manifests in Keith's throat. "Alright. Alright, how about this? Imagine your rival."

Lance contorts his face. It wasn't a difficult task; he hated the dude so much that he'd committed the guy's appearance to memory. "This better be worth it."

"Lance." 

"Chill, I'm on it." His eyelids fall shut. "Okay, nasty typical bully face. Check. Skinny noodle body. Check. Ugly bowl cut. Check." 

"Good. Now give him a mullet."  

That was a peculiar request. A tad bit difficult, since he hadn't memorized the details of a mullet before, but doable. In his mind's eye, he swapped the horrendous bowl cut for a mullet-

Lance finally drew the connections. "No _freaking_ way."

Eyes snapping wide open, he scrambles to the edge of the pool and stares incredulously at the reflection that greeted him. "You're motherfreaking Takashi Kogane."

Keith plucked Blue the lion out of Lance's weakening grasp before she fell to her demise in the very inviting water. "Took you long enough." 

"So you're...?" Lance ambiguously drifted off. 

"I'm what?"

"You're related to Shiro?" 

Keith offers an even more ambiguous answer. "Kinda, yeah."

It all made sense. What Turtle Boss meant by "older brother." Why Keith and Shiro were on a first name basis. Why he wasn't able to get along with Keith.

"Which means you're 'The Hot Emo Dropout.'"

"They called me 'The Hot Emo Dropout?" There was a touch of amusement in Keith's voice.

Lance was in despair and denial. 

"The whole school went _nuts_  after you left. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing 'Kogane.'" 

"Sucks." Keith barely gave a hint of a reaction. _Probably used to all the attention_ , his brain supplies. 

Lance slammed both palms face down on the tiles. "Why're you acting like that's nothing?"

"Because it's that." Keith absentmindedly twirls Blue's bristly tail with a finger. "Nothing. Nothing but envy and pointless drama."

Lance looked mildly offended, like Keith had insulted the entire Sanchez family. "I _feast_ on envy and pointless drama." 

"That's not a very healthy meal."

"I also eat danger for breakfast." 

"Do you swallow your pride?" 

"Yep. Just as I remembered." Lance snorted. "You haven't gotten any less annoying." 

"I'm not the only one, Sanchez."

"Oh, c'mon! I just got promoted to Lance and now you're demoting me?" Lance flailed his arms to emphasize his distress. 

Keith ducked to avoid the flying appendages. "Sorry, Mister Sanchez-"

"Oh my quiznack, now you're being _formal_ -" 

In the end, Blue the stuffed lion did fall to her demise, because both boys tumbled over the ledge into the deep end of the pool.


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been neglecting this story for the past two months? WHOOP. I need to get a feel for this fic again. (':
> 
> Hopefully all your questions will be answered in the next chapter. It's Keith's motives and his backstory!

Water surges past his earlobes, muffling his hearing.

Lance is, for the most part, a top-notch swimmer. He's been recognized for his pure talent, having been nominated for multiple awards and bestowed golden medals for his achievements. Beach babes, and even Olympic participants, stand at attention in his presence.

As his summer job, he's a lifeguard. Not only does it enable the opportunity to practice his expertise, but it also allows him to perform CPR on comely ladies. (Note: none of the aforementioned is in accordance with the facts, save for the summertime job portion.)

It all amounts to nothing when Keith is involved. 

He opens his mouth to share his epiphany with Keith, blame him for his sudden disability to swim, but he  _somehow_ manages to forget that they're underwater and gulps in an unsafe quantity of chemical-induced water in alternative. 

Clawing frantically upwards in uncultivated strokes, he tries to kick towards the surface, but the water slows down his movements.

Great, he thinks to himself. Surely it can't get any worse.

Bitch, you thought. Lance feels his numbing body begin to shut down its systems. Error, error, Lance is down, Lance is _down_. 

Oh, buoy. (If death is inevitable, then he might as well meet his doom with one last, final pun.) 

Uh oh, spaghettio, is all his brain can muster, because his thought process is becoming  _muddled_ and he feels disoriented. He can't discern the difference between up and down and left and right anymore; his lungs are screaming with the desperate need to breathe, and his eyes are stinging from the exposure to chlorine. 

It's when his vision starts to get fuzzy around the edges and he's losing hope that something locks firmly onto his wrist, anchoring him to the world. 

_Keith_. The name fills him with a sense of serenity, and his thrashing limbs still.  _Keith is saving me._

He holds onto that single thought like a lifeline, even after they've resurfaced and he's hacking up lungfuls of liquid and trembling violently in the other boy's embrace. 

Throughout his coughing fest, Keith murmurs reassuring words, kneeling by his side to offer a warm hand for Lance to cling onto. 

The boy's gaze is intense, never straying. His usually guarded eyes give way to benign concern, and his grip on Lance's hand is bordering painful.

One, two heartbeats pass, before Keith speaks, voice uncharacteristically soft and lacking its familiar rigor. "You okay?"

_"_ Oh, yeah, _shore_ ," Lance manages to choke out between sputters, keeping with the ocean-eccentric pun theme. His throat burns, and despite swallowing gallons of water, he's dehydrated. "I almost drowned, but yeah, I'm okay. You?"

"Ditto." A smile quirks the corner of Keith's mouth and-oh. His heart skips a beat. "You're unbelievable." 

"Yeah?" Lance returns the gesture with a goofy smile. "Well, you're unbelievably beautiful." 

Quiznack. He hadn't meant to voice that thought out loud. Keith's eyes considerably widen a fraction. _Quiznack_.

He blames the slip on his oxygen-deprived mind. 

Keith's eyes had become distant and unfocused. He doesn't do or say anything for a long while but stare vacantly. Lance is worried he'd broken Keith with the unintentional compliment and is a second away from apologizing when a charming laugh bubbles from Keith's lips.

It surprises them both.

"Lance, that's so-" He releases Lance's hand to drape a forearm over his face, evidently hiding his expression.

"What?" Lance prods at Keith's ~~muscular~~ arm with a curious finger, ducking and strafing to try and see Keith's face, to no avail. "So what? Cheesy? Cute?"

Keith lightly shakes his head side to side, shoulders quaking in silent laughter. "-so _egotistical_ of you." 

Huh? He hadn't expected that response.

His confusion must've shown on his face, because Keith elaborates. "I thought-for a moment I thought-hah." He shyly ducks his head, dripping hair gingerly falling into his eyes. Lance resists the temptation to brush the locks away. "I'm in your body now."

Oh. Lance blinks dumbfoundedly. _Oh_. He scrambles to save the remainder of his dignity. "I mean, yeah, what can I say? I'm irresistible. Loving yourself is important."

Keith's smile expands. Man, he had it bad. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Can you stand on your own?" 

Lance contorts his face at the unappealing concept of standing; his body feels drained of energy and all he wants to do is lie on the pavement and absorb the heat of the sun, but he persists, planting both his feet on the ground. He pushes against the force of gravity, and as he rises to his full height, Keith is there, the tips of his fingers ghosting near Lance's elbow. 

It's a struggle to even smile, but the effort is worth the trouble to see the merriment in Keith's eyes. "I'm beat. Let's bail."

* * *

An avalanche of dark hair tumbles out from under his woolen towel. Lance scowls at the pretty boy in the misty mirror, inspecting a strand between his forefinger and the pad of his thumb. How did Keith manage to maintain all this hair? 

Lance's violet-blue eyes drift to his palms, and he's reminded again of those gruesome burn marks blemishing the pallid skin. What the quiznack happened to him? How did he obtain these scars?

There's still so much he doesn't know about Keith Gyeong. Takashi Kogane? 

He doesn't even know what to call his soulmate. 

And how were they going to switch back? Don't get him wrong: Keith/Kogane is attractive as quiznack, and he wouldn't mind waking up every morning to the boy's unjustifiably handsome face, but he misses seeing what made him, well, _him_. 

Ugh. Lance screws his eyes shut, like he's nursing a pounding headache, and exhales heavily. 

There're too many questions and not enough answers.

Keith is randomly browsing through television channels with the remote control when he returns from his shower. At the sound of Lance's footsteps, Keith turns on the news anchor and sedately lifts his chin at the screen. "Took you long enough. Take a look at this."

Lance falls into the space besides Keith on the queen-sized bed and steals the bowl of fresh popcorn from Keith's lap. He's about to make a comment about how he'd _so_ date the news reporter when his brain registers what she's saying. "...convict Keith Gyeong was last spotted with student Lance Sanchez of the Garrison High School on Highway 451. Gyeong's new target has been identified by his respective family, and..."

Lance drowns out Mrs.Holt when the camera pans to his family, hysterically crying and looking badly shaken.His spine stiffens and-he knocks the container of popcorn over in his rush to press his palm against the monitor.

"Please let my baby be okay." His mother is tugging despairingly at Mrs.Holt's sleeve, and her eyes, usually light with exuberance and kindness, is brimming with tears and is full of so much  _agony_ that Lance can't look away. "Please tell me he's going to be all right. Oh, my poor, poor _baby_. He's only seventeen and-" She folds in on herself, shivering uncontrollably.   

His siblings envelop her into a crushing, fierce hug. And his father...Lance has never seen his father look this furious in the entirety of his life.

" _You heartless monster_ ," Mr.Sanchez roars at the microphone, jabbing with an accusatory finger, "You take thousands of lives away and now you've taken my son. He's done nothing wrong and yet-" He pauses to suppress a strangled sob. "I don't know what you want or what your intention is, but please, have mercy. I-I'm pleading you. Please. Name the price. Millions, billions; it doesn't matter. Just, please, spare my son-"

The screen is suddenly pitch black. Lance jerks away, brushing the remnants of tears resting on the bridges of his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd been crying, and...he sucks in a deep, shaky breath, before fully turning to face Keith. "Keith, I-"

"Save it." Keith forcefully hurls the remote down on the bedside table. The force of the throw sends the lamp crashing to the floor into fragmented pieces. "I'm done. I'm taking you back, and after..." There's a pained expression twisting his features. He cuts his eyes away and barrels on. "You won't have to see me-and Gunderson and Shiro-ever again."

" _What the_   _fuck_? You're just gonna cut me out?" With Keith's voice, he sounds so _hostile_. Keith himself is taken aback. "Like this all never happened? What is it with you and-and-" He screams out of frustration. "Wanting me out of your life? I don't...get it. I don't..." His voice breaks haphazardly. " _Get it_. So can you just...tell me? I...I want to know you. I want to know who Keith Gyeong or Takashi Kogane or whatever is. Because whenever I think I'm close to understanding you, you take a one-eighty and I'm back to where I started." He barks out an incredulous laugh, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "Quiznack. I'm so freaking pathetic. What was I thinking? I can't force you to like me. I can't force you to do anything. I-sorry. I'm done."

Lance smiles bitterly and shoulders on the crimson biker jacket he's grown to like. He's about to pull on his boots when Keith clamps a firm hand on his shoulder. "Wait."

He waits. Keith's fingers tense. "I'll...explain everything." 


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm back!" I say as I disappear for two months. So sorry for the delay! 
> 
> I may have underestimated how much I would write. For those of you who are still interested, the other portion of Keith's history and Lance's reaction will probs be in the next chapter.
> 
> Note: this was written way back when. Season two bears no relevance to this fic. (BTW, that memory with Sendak will play an important role later on. >:3c)

He isn't particularly fond of talking.

Keith seldom panics the way he used to, whereupon anxiety and fear would convert his tongue to the equivalence of coarse sandpaper and his mouth to an arid desert. He doesn't freeze upon wandering gazes, his palms no longer clam up during social interactions, and the importunate want to avoid eye contact in hopes of being left in solitude has vanquished completely.

That wasn't the case. Not anymore.

From a young age, he'd been reprimanded for speaking out of turn, and was often punished for doing so. The Balmeran Orphanage was a stringent agency, with little to no tolerance for troublemakers and tomfoolery.

Ironically, he was the paradigm of a troublemaker. 

With far too many incidents and events, far too many repressed memories and episodes to possibly count, he was incapable of remembering every single one. Several did, however, come to mind unprompted. 

Keith may have been unable to accurately recall details, but he wasn't unable to forget how he'd felt in those scenarios.

* * *

Age 6.

Grown-ups are weird.

They had it hardwired into their brains that adolescents didn't understand what they were conveying, because kids were 'young and naive' and will only 'understand when they're older.'

Keith could understand the adults just fine.  
  
"It's not his fault," The wizened lady at the reception would insist to each one of the miffed couples who adopted and, immediately after, returned him. "He can't control it."  
  
Correction: Keith knew, (quite well, actually) what he was doing. He feels inclined to apprise her of that, simply out of spite.

Yet he never bothered to correct her, and she never bothered to ask. Besides, once an adult reached a conclusion, it was challenging to alter their views. 

In his first few terms at the foster care, Keith was rejected mainly due to his anger issues. Then it was for his tendency to deconstruct.

* * *

Age 8.

"He needs professional help. Tearing the wings off of bugs and putting gold fishes in blenders? That's a definite sign." 

Keith is partially listening, partially staring into space as he waits idly on a colorful bench outside the office, inspecting the ambered beetle his new mother gifted him in the groove of his palm.

In his defense, he'd only been attempting to preserve the butterfly's pretty, delicate wings. 

In addition, Goldilocks the goldfish was the only aquatic creature available in the vicinity of the entire household; with no other viable options, he'd been forced by default to resort to the closest entity to a fish. Namely, Goldilocks the goldfish. The family pet was intended to be utilized for his 'DIY fish oil,' (his 'sister' claimed that fish oil was beneficial for health) but, apparently, that wasn't how it worked.

When Keith reiterated those exact words to his adoptive family, they didn't believe him.

* * *

Age 11.

"He's really depressing to be around."

Keith is heading to the kitchenette to fetch himself a glass of water when he overhears the supervisor's conversation with Shay's grandmother. 

Initial objective abandoned, he positions his ear near the keyhole to listen intently.

"I've never seen him smile before," Rolo recounts. (Keith nearly busts open the door in outrage. He doesn't want even a small morsel of Rolo's sympathy.) "Yeah. He's had a tough time interacting with the other kids. Scares them right off. Poor kid doesn't even know it." 

Now the 'poor kid' does.

 

Keith stays up at an ungodly hour later that night, churning Rolo's words over and over in his mind like a record stuck on repeat.  

His brain buzzes with new and unanswered questions, questions he never thought of entertaining before until recently; questions like: how was it that all the other kids were selected right off the bat? What did they have that he didn't? And to think that most were actually _kept_? 

Bingo.

Keith throws off the itchy duvet in one, swift movement and tiptoes quietly down the winding hallways to the bathroom. His gaze lands on the pair of scissors Nyma was using earlier, illuminated by the faint sliver of moonlight spilling into the dimness of the lavatory. He reaches in an almost numb manner for the tool and levels the blades to his lengthy front bangs, his reflection mirroring his actions.

 _Snip_.

The first cut. He has the ability to stop now and go back to bed before he does something he regrets.

He doesn't. He snips, and snips, and snips, until he's unable to recognize himself in the mirror. 

Deeming his handiwork as passable, Keith returns to his assigned cot, confident his plan was foolproof.  

Adults seemed to prefer cute kids. _Surely_ this would work.

It ultimately backfires.

 

Sendak and his diverse throng of ugly bullies approach Keith at lunch with malicious intent, eyeing him as though he were prey. It was only the second week of secondary school, and yet Sendak had already advanced onto a new target. 

At least Hunk Garrett had that Lance guy. Keith was on his own. 

Maybe, if he ignored them hard enough, they would go away. Experimentally, Keith undoes the aluminum foil around his deli sandwich and takes a half-hearted bite.

His lack of a response only serves to encourage Sendak. "Hey, Chinese boy! What's that? Dog?" 

Keith catches himself before he could snarkily reply back and jams a handful of salty crisps into his mouth to refrain from worsening the situation. Unfortunately, Sendak can't take a hint. 

"I'm talkin' to you." Sendak violates Keith's personal space and jabs a finger into the center of his chest. Keith's eyes briefly flit down to the intrusive hand, before he proceeds to calmly sip his pouched juice through a straw.

Haxus elbows his leader in the ribs. "It's because you're not speaking his language. Watch this. Ching chong ling long!" 

A chorus of snickers erupt all around him. Keith crumbles up his juice box and leans over the table for his paper bag to pack up and leave elsewhere-only, a spindly hand smacks his food clean off his plate and sends the sustenance sailing through the air. Directly into a puddle of muck. 

The pathetic gang howls with laughter and turn to one another to exchange high-fives, as if wasting food is congratulatory. 

" _Sorry_ ," Sendak apologizes insincerely, looking everything but sorry. "Were you gonna eat that? It suits you, 'cause it looks like shit."

That's it. Keith is  _done_ playing mister nice guy.

In lightning quick motion, Keith lashes out a hand. The skin in Sendak's limb  _tears_ as he digs his nails into the flesh. With a simple flick of his wrist, Keith bends the arm at an unnatural angle and doesn't relent until a dry snap resounds in the canteen.

Sendak's inhumane scream haunts him throughout the entire day.

* * *

Age 12.

"You are the cause for most of the problems in this family." 

There aren't any commemorative memories with said family. If Keith were being honest, he **resented**  this temporary family.

"No." The old hag's voice is with a hard edge. "You _are_ the problem. Did you really believe anyone would want you? A dysfunctional, temperamental child?"

Keith is deathly silent. 

"Not so talkative now, are we?" Haggar's eyes flash cruelly under the shadow her hood casts. "Go on. I grant you my full permission to run away again. I will simply call children's services and tell them we do not want you back."

Keith does what he does best: he remains silent. 

"My husband took you in out of pity, did you know that?" Haggar cackles wickedly, as if it were some hilarious joke he didn't partake in. "There were plenty of other functional children, yet he made the mistake of choosing you."

Silence.

"I can understand why your biological family abandoned you."

It was then Keith felt his most reoccurring emotion: red, hot  _fury_. The stool he's sitting on tips over the same second he loses his grasp on his sanity.

Keith is lunging for the old woman. But before he could reach her, however, he's blasted by a wall of intense heat. Foolishly, he'd tried to shield his face with his bare hands, and-

Never before had he experienced this amount of pain.

There's a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He blindingly backs into the nearest wall and collapses to his knees, his sense of direction lost and his nostrils overflooded with the sickening stench of singed flesh; _his_  singed flesh.

It _burns._ With every move he makes,searing hot pain races across the surface of his hands. 

And Keith knows, without seeing them for confirmation, that they're permanently damaged.

* * *

Age 13.

"What're you doing here all by yourself?"

Keith hadn't been expecting company. After the...incident, couples avoided him like the plague, making certain to steer clear of his path. 

An Asian teenager was crouching in his range of sight. He was roughly, Keith estimates, around the age of seventeen or eighteen, and, Keith wasn't gonna lie, looked somewhat like a douche, what with his undercut and jet black fringe. Plus, he was adorned in pricey clothing (comes with fingerless gloves!), and heavily applied eyeliner.

Oh, and his intentions differed from Keith. He wanted to converse. Keith didn't want to converse.

So, naturally, Keith told him to kindly piss off.

Instead of being intimidated and backing away like any sensible person in their right mind, the teen was spurred on. In fact, the older boy takes it as an invitation to join Keith underneath the shade of the chitalpa tree, sidling up close and personal. Keith doesn't feel the least bit unsettled; strangely enough, he feels warm. Safe. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

He hasn't dropped the friendly fiasco. The other's modulated voice continues to retain its gentle undertone and-the muscle in Keith's cheek twitches irritably. _He's p_ _atronizing me._  
  
"Didn't you hear me?” Keith, on the contrast, sounds brash. Cold. He draws the thin sweater the orphanage provided him tighter around himself in an effort to appear smaller. "I said to  _leave me alone_."

The elder of the two doesn't. He takes a minute to smile whimsically up at the blossoming tree and shuts his onyx eyes, luxuriating in the drifting breeze that tugs at his hair. Another minute of basking in the beauty of nature passes, and he breathes out contently through his mouth, blinks open his eyes, and redirects that genial smile to Keith. "What's your name? I'm Takashi Shirogane."

"Ask better questions and maybe I'll answer." 

Shiro never fails to surprise him; he chortles. Keith duly notes that this Shiro fellow has a peculiar sense of humor. "As long as I receive better answers, then yeah. I'll ask better questions." 

"Hm."

A distant voice calls in the background. Shiro slowly rises to his feet and dusts the invisible dirt from his jeans, aware of the curious violet eyes following the back and forth movement of his fingerless gloves. He plants a firm hand on the top of Keith's head and affectionately ruffles the badly trimmed hairs. "I gotta go. See you around...?"

"Keith."

"Keith." His name, typically said in an admonitory conduct, was softly spoken; by a stranger, nonetheless. "Take care, Keith."

He can feel the metaphorical walls he'd built specifically to keep out society being knocked down one smile at a time.


End file.
